


Erised

by J_Antebellum



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 45
Words: 119,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23283106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Antebellum/pseuds/J_Antebellum
Summary: I love JK Rowling's saga Cormoran Strike and I thought their characters reminded me of Ashlyn and Ali, so I thought, what if I mix my two biggest loves? And here's a fanfic heavily inspired on the Cormoran Strike books (mixed), but with a lot of my own imagination poured into it. Locations are mostly real and book-based, others original, story is mostly original with a bunch of things from the books in relationship to the cases and character background, and characters are mostly USWNT and their real family and friends with a few original creations. Also, prepare for British Krashlyn!
Relationships: Ashlyn Harris/Ali Krieger
Comments: 74
Kudos: 65





	1. The cuckoo's calling

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Hoping you're all taking good care of yourselves with this Covid madness. I've ran out of the UK, where I've been living for a few months now, and returned to my hometown to support my family through these difficult times. Now I'm in lockdown ;)
> 
> Even though you probably hate me if you've been following my other fics and seen I've barely updated in the past year, I'm happy to finally announce I wrote ten fanfics, all Krashlyn, in the past year. One of them even has a part 2, so it's actually eleven fanfics. So anyway, now that we have these hard times I think all of us in lockdown locked in our flats for minimum a month will appreciate having stuff to read and get entertained, even if it's just fics, so I think it's the best moment to bring all the stories at once. Enjoy!
> 
> Also if you want to talk with me, ask when the next chapter pops or whatever, I'm jantebellum in Tumblr, so feel free to message me or send some anon over there!
> 
> Much love xx

Some days you wake up and notice something has shifted in the air. Something tells you that _today_ will be different, _today_ will be special, meaningful, one of a kind. _Today_ will be memorable. And even though August 30th 2010 woke-up as rainy as any other day in London, with dark clouds expanding over the sky, and the stormy smell flying in the air, Ali knew today was one of those days as soon as she opened her eyes. Her fiancé, Eric Cunleaf, slept next to her snoring away as always, oblivious to the refreshing feeling that had made Ali awake without sleepy eyes, and her alarm hadn't rung yet, but Ali just knew.

Inspired by the sensation that she was in her lucky day, and extra cheerful because her period had just ended, proving one, that she wasn't pregnant one month more, and two, that she could, after all, survive that awful week, Ali hummed songs while she showered, washing her long, mostly straight, dark hair with dedication, and smiling at her twenty-five year-old face in the mirror feeling young and happy while drying her hair off. She had her morning tea while watching the BBC, got dressed in a blouse and tube skirt with heels, showing her long, muscular legs, and did her hair and make-up before grabbing her purse and leaning over her boyfriend, kissing his forehead.

“Goodnight love,” she said with a smile, before putting on her long cream coat and grabbing her umbrella, and marching towards the Tube.

There was quite the distance between her ground-floor flat in Ealing, North West London, and her new, temporal job as a secretary in Central London, just by Tottenham Court Road's underground station, but she did the distance in a good mood with her black purse hanging from a shoulder and a big smile every time she looked at her huge sapphire engagement ring, just acquired the night before after eight years of relationship.

She walked down the crowded, narrow, small Denmark Street looking down at a London Guide book, because Eric said checking the phone all the time would make her look like a tourist, and thus she'd be more vulnerable to robbery. She wasn't sure looking at the book gave a different impression, but she had only been in London for almost three months, while he had been there for nine already, thus she wasn't going to argue the expert. Ali was occasionally attracted to the guitar shops that filled the street, and pleasantly surprised that her new office was right above a music bar, closed at the moment, but still made her way into her office building -that really looked just like any other four-storey old London apartment building- half an hour before time.

Deciding getting there ahead of time would make her look more efficient to her new boss, Ali decided to trot up the stairs, as the lift had a poster saying 'broken', and surprise him. However, she was the one surprised hearing two women shouting from above.

“...You're fucking crazy Lisbeth, you fucking ar-ouch!” there was a sound of something crashing and breaking, “Bloody bitch!” Ali's eyes widened alarmed at the strong, loud, female voice, and she figured someone in one of the apartments must be having issues.

“You deserve that! I gave everything to you, but you only wanted me because of my mon-!” another female shouting made Ali stop in her track in the first floor, looking at the ceiling towards the voices.

“Shut up!” the first woman roared. “Get out! I don't need you and your fucking... GET OUT!”

“You never loved me, you're so selfish, using me for your benefit! Who paid you this place?! It's pretty much mine!” Ali snorted a laugh, shaking her head, and climbed to the second floor, to her office.

There was a moment of astonishment in which she stopped midway in the stairs towards the third floor as, looking up, she saw the glass door of her office, and realized that one, the fight came from her new job, and two, her new boss was a detective, as the glass door read 'A. M. Harris' and below 'Private Detective'. But before she could assimilate the shock, or make-out what the rest of the shouting and crashing sounds that had continued had been about, the door opened wide and a blonde, model beauty like, woman, stormed out of the office, almost crashing with her and forcing her to move aside in the stairwell, giving her just enough time to fix her brown eyes briefly on the woman's grey, angry ones.

Ali hurried to climb the rest of the stairs, and her hand was just about to touch the door handle when it opened wide towards the inside and a tall figure came storming out.

“BETH!” it was the first woman's voice, shouting again, but Ali didn't have time to register much of it, or really see her, as she stormed out of her office so fast she crashed against Ali with her tall, wide body, making her stumble with the last step of the stairs, that was pretty much in front, and fall backwards.

Except that she didn't fall. Strong arms wrapped around her waist and her own hands instinctively reached out and grabbed strong biceps, and then she was pulled back to her feet.

“Jesus, I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting...” Ali looked up at the stuttering woman, who had blushed and clenched her jaw awkwardly, stepping away as soon as she realized their faces were almost touching. She was a head and a half taller than Ali, with an athletic, fit body, for what Ali could sense from her fitting suit trousers, and the soft blue shirt she had rolling the sleeves up to her elbows and with the first three buttons opened haphazardly, showing a freckled path to her breasts, presumably. Ali had enough with two seconds of time to see the woman looked beautiful in her nice office wear, had strong, big hands, and an oval face with really marked cheekbones and very feminine, though small, dark eyes, with her hair pulled back in a tiny bun. And the woman was now shy, separating abruptly and scratching the side of her hair looking down as if trying to avoid her curious eyes.

Then Ali noticed she hadn't said anything yet, and, judging by the warmth of her ears, she was blushing too. She blew away the hair strands that had moved over her face, took a deep breath to calm her racing, adrenaline-filled heart, and smiled pressing her lips together, not knowing well what to do.

“It's okay,” Ali said. “Thanks for saving my neck, though.” She added trying to break the ice with a little giggle. The other woman looked up and relieved, smiled small, showing a left dimple and perfect white teeth that made Ali stare a beat too long.

“It's the least I could do, since I almost caused your death,” the woman joked along. Ali nodded with a nervous giggle.

“Well, uh...” Ali moved aside and used her arm to point to the stairs. “I'm sure you can still catch her if you run.”

The taller woman looked to the stairs for a moment and lost her smile, shaking her head.

“I guess it's not worth it. So can I help you with something? Not a lot of people come around here if I'm honest.”

“Yes, uh...” Ali pointed to the opened glass door. “I was looking for the private detective.”

“I see,” the woman pursed her lips and nodded slowly. Ali noticed then her eyes were hazel and her nose was freckled, her skin seeming unnaturally pale, and her hair, that she had first thought of as dark, actually turned dyed silver halfway, as it became a bun. “Well, you've got her right here.”

“You are Detective Harris?” Ali asked, sounding incredulous. The detective raised her eyebrows and nodded slowly.

“Always that tone of surprise,” the woman murmured in a neutral tone.

“I'm sorry, it's just, I wasn't expecting...”

“A woman.”

“Such a young woman,” Ali corrected to save herself. The detective snorted, seemingly amused sensing her actual real thought, and for a split second Ali thought she had half smiled.

“Good save. Come in then, excuse the mess...” the detective wasn't joking around.

The office looked like a tornado had come, held a party with a hurricane and an earthquake, and then Thor had come around and played darts with his maze against the decoration. Firstly, it was hard not to step on paper, as the floor was pretty much full of it, as well as folders and pencils, some broken that the detective simply threw to a small basket as she quickly leaned trying to hurriedly fix the mess a little. There were two small windows, closed but with open rolled blinds, letting the early morning light inside, a floor plant fallen to the floor, a small sofa with a blanket and a pillow thrown haphazardly over it, that the detective hurried the most to grab, and a desk document tray on the floor as well. On the corner desk by one of the windows, a pen holder lied on the surface, along with a desk phone, some more documents and pens, and behind the desk an abstract painting had fallen from the wall, but luckily had no frame or glass to break.

“Miss?” the detective stood up suddenly, shaking her arm softly to bring her out of her curiosity-induced trance while hiding the blanket and pillow with an arm behind her back.

“Sorry, what?”

“I was just saying you should go into my inner office, if you want. I'll be with you in a moment, I'm so sorry for this mess, I promise you it's not the usual.”

Ali looked around the humble office, and back at the nervous-looking woman, whose bun had become a bit loose from the stress, and decided to have compassion.

“I could help you. After all, I think it's actually my job.”

“Your job?”

“Right, sorry, I'm...” Ali looked for her documents in her purse, handing them in a perfect plastic envelope to the detective. “Alexandra Krieger. Your new temporal assistant.”

“It cannot be,” the woman frowned, looking at the papers as if they were in an odd, foreign language. Her left arm was a full arm sleeve, Ali noticed, wondering how it hadn't called her attention before. “I cancelled it. Last week.”

“Oh, damn...” Ali had been counting on this job. Eric always commented how little she was putting in the rent. “There must have been some paperwork mistake... I'll go back to them and tell them, no worries.”

“Well, I imagine, it's just a week, right?” the detective commented, feeling back as she saw the obvious disappointed in Ali's face. “And you probably won't be assigned something else until then, right? So no money this week.”

“I'm afraid so, yeah... but don't worry, that's not your problem.”

“Nor yours. Shit temp job agencies, I know... it's what I can afford,” she looked apologetic. She knew she couldn't afford Ali's shit salary. “Tell you what... stay. I'll contact the agency and fix this, don't worry. You shouldn't have to pay someone else's mistakes, and I guess I could use an extra hand with this mess...”

“Really?” the way Ali's face lighted-up gave the detective such warmth inside that she felt speechless for one moment, and unexpectedly smiled, nodding.

“Sure. I'm Ashlyn, by the way,” she returned the documents and offered a hand. “Ashlyn Harris. Very nice to meet you.”

“I can only say the same,” Ali grinned, shaking her strong hand enthusiastically. She had seen a kitchenette on one side and pointed to it with her head. “I'll put the pot, you start telling me how you want your documents classified?”

“Uh... there's no tea, actually...”

“Oh. Then let's get down to business!”

Her enthusiasm was contagious and Ashlyn, throwing her blanket and pillow in the inner office, one of the two doors in the room, half smiled, forgetting her many problems momentarily as she knelt next to Ali and helped her fix things.

  
  



	2. All I am

Her knee hurt as she knelt, so she dissimulated fixing things that were within reach if she only leaned forward, and let Ali handle the floor stuff. Together, Ali and her organized cabinets and folders for half an hour before Ashlyn checked her watch and decided she should probably go get something for lunch, her stomach having started to grumble in ways she could no longer put a poker face about.

“Uhm, Ms Krieger, I'm just going to go run some errands for a couple hours, is it okay if you finish with this?”

Ali looked up, a strand of dark hair falling over her face as she stood back up, and nodded, forming a small smile right away.

“No problem. What do I do if a client comes?”

“If a client...?” Ashlyn snorted a laugh. “Oh, that doesn't happen, don't worry. But if such miracle happened, I guess you could...” Ashlyn looked around and shrugged. “Have them wait on the sofa and call me, or offer to make them an appointment. You can always say I'm busy with a case.”

“Oh, there's a case already?” Ali looked super excited suddenly and Ashlyn felt uneasy about letting her down, for some reason. “How interesting! What's about? I mean, if I can know, I don't wanna...” she got nervous rambling and looked suddenly flustered, and Ashlyn felt tender about her, finding her sweet. Her temporal assistants weren't normally that excited.

“There's no case,” Ashlyn admitted, feeling bad about the obvious disappointment that appeared on Ali's face. Ashlyn walked over to some thick books in a cabinet and pointed to them. “Those are the numbers. You see, this agency is... well,” she shrugged, “not every business can succeed, right? Are you good at finances?”

“Oh, yeah, I've got some experience as secretary, managing finances and all,” Ali nodded, confident, still holding a bunch of documents between her hands.

“Excellent, then you'll handle the numbers, I've always hated tedious desk jobs. Should be easy, don't be surprised if we're in red all the time,” Ashlyn said nonchalantly.

“Really?” Ali frowned. “The agency is dead? Doesn't it drive you anxious, I mean... how are you going to... get by in London with no money?”

“The same way I always have,” Ashlyn said simply, looking very calm, and checked again her leather-strapped watch. “Well, I should go. See you soon, feel free to take a lunch break, if anyone calls take the message, and if I'm not here by five for any reason...” she opened a drawer and pulled a key. “Add it to your chain for this week. It's important to lock the office whenever you leave, okay? Oh, and... the building door opens here, although it's normally opened during the day,” she pointed to the intercom phone. “And computer password is CRH24, it's in a post-it in the first drawer if you forget it. So... yeah, I think that's all. Good luck.”

“Thanks, same to you.”

Ali took the key and Ashlyn left, letting her realize her new boss was limping a little. It took another half an hour for Ali to finish organizing the office, and then an hour and a half more to clean around, as the layers of dust were scary. She found cleaning products in the sink cabinet in the little loo adjacent, and devoted herself to leaving her work space neat, not entering the inner office, that she considered Ms Harris' territory. She hadn't seen any rings in her hands, save for a thumb silver ring, so she assumed her boss was unmarried.

Excited despite the agency's apparent economical situation, Ali sat at her desk going over the files, finding only a few cases done, all resolved, but not all paid for. Many had 'EXEMPT OF PAYMENT' scribbled in big over them, often if the cases were related to cheating, which there were several, or something labelled as 'domestic', whatever that meant. She found a folder with many copies of a standard document for employees to compromise to not discuss work stuff outside the office as protection towards their clients' privacy. Excited, Ali grabbed one and filled it, going over to Ashlyn's office to put it on her desk.

As she entered the office, separated from hers by another door with the upper half being of blurry glass, she saw it was a very modest space. There was a blanket and a pillow thrown on the floor by the door, the ones Ashlyn had taken from the sofa, and the walls were light, soft grey, with white skirting boards and wooden floor, like the rest of the office. There were two windows with rolling blinds that fell over the glass with the thin blinds rolled so that light came in through, and the rest of the furniture consisted of a small desk with a black laptop closed on top, a pen board, a cork board with a bunch of tacks pinched on it, a desk chair, two chairs across from it, and a small leather sofa next to a coffee table, in the same manner that the office outside. There was also a floor green plant, and a small pot with a plant that had small white flowers on the window bench. There were no photographs, but there was a beautiful Land's End painting non-framed on the wall, a huge painting right next to her desk. Ali walked closer to it to examine it and saw that in the inferior right corner the initials TJH were scribbled.

Returning to her own office, Ali looked at the painting there and saw the same initials TJH, were also on it. Then, realizing it was lunch time and she had been in the office for quite the amount of hours, she decided she deserved a lunch break, so she took a sandwich and water bottle from her purse and, while she had her lunch, she entertained herself calling her family and friends full of excitement to talk about her engagement.

An hour later, Ali was checking wedding planning stuff and dresses on the computer when the front door opened and she jumped in her seat. Ali saw a tall, thin man, bald, with milky white skin, glasses, and a expression of a deer caught in highlights.

“Who are you? Isn't Ashlyn here?” the man asked.

“No, I'm her assistant,” Ali smiled politely. “Detective Harris is currently out of the office with a case, but I can take your name and you can come tomorrow if you wish.”

“Do you know how long she'll take?”

“Uh... no, sorry.”

“Okay,” the man nodded. “It's fine, I'll wait. My name's John Bristow. We're old friends.”

Ali looked at the man's suit and tie, thinking he didn't look like someone who Ashlyn would befriend, but nodded.

“Okay, then take a seat and I'll call her and let her know you're here. Can I offer you tea, coffee...?”

“Tea would be great, thanks.”

Mr Bristow went to sit on the sofa, and Ali rushed to the desk phone, but realized she had no idea which one was Ashlyn's numbers. As if she had known Ali would need to know, there was a button for the phone agenda, and the only saved number save for the emergency 999, said 'Ashlyn Harris', so Ali could phone her. After a couple beeps, Ashlyn answered the call.

“Everything all right, Ms Krieger?” Ashlyn asked, and Ali could hear the street in the background.

“Yes, we have a client. Mr John Bristow is here, waiting for you. Said you're old friends.” Ali said, smiling politely at Mr Bristow, who sat on the sofa in front of her desk and smiled small at her.

“Bristow? I don't know a John Bristow,” Ashlyn murmured, confused. “All right, give me twenty minutes, I'll hurry up. If anything happens, even though it won't,” she said making sure to have a soothing tone, “there is a pocket knife in a tiny box in the depths of the second drawer. Point to the groin.”

Ali's eyes widened, so she looked away so Mr Bristow wouldn't see her surprise.

“All right, no problem,” she tried to dissimulate her nervousness at the thought of something happening. What was something? Was that like the woman, Lisbeth, in the morning? Was that usual? Where had she gotten herself into?

“See you soon.” And Ashlyn hung up.

When Ashlyn arrived not twenty minutes, but almost forty later, holding a bunch of bags and limping a bit heavier than before, she smiled apologetically at the man and Ali, stumbling with her bags.

“Hi, uh, sorry, I was getting those things we needed for our case,” Ashlyn lied. “Just five minutes.” She hurried inside the inner office and, as she put everything, plus the blanket and pillow she had left on the floor, under her wooden desk, she wondered how were Ali and Mr Bristow drinking tea and munching biscuits if she had none. She didn't even own mugs. Quickly, Ashlyn took a small bottle of pills from her pocket and gulped one dry before limping outside. “So, Mr John Bristow, right?” Ashlyn offered him a hand as he stood up. “I'm so sorry, I don't remember you.”

“I'm Charlie's little brother,” Mr Bristow said, and Ashlyn raised her eyebrows. “My hair was brown and existent then,” he added with half a smile.

“Oh my God, of course, John!” Ashlyn nodded. “It's been what, twenty years? You've become... well, successful I see, nice suit.”

“Yeah, I work at my Uncle's law firm,” Mr Bristow smiled small. “You're not too bad either, I heard about the NAVY, Royal Police, uh?”

“Yes,” Ashlyn nodded. “Well, how can I help you?”

“Right, uh... it's about my sister.”

“Sister?” Ashlyn looked confused, thoughtful, and Ali observed with amusement. She was also trying to ignore how nice Ashlyn's bleached hair looked now she had let it loose, falling over her back.

“She was adopted after Charlie...” the detective nodded again. “The youngest of us, Lula. Can we talk inside?” he added, looking at Ali a little distrusting.

“Sure, lead the way,” the man walked inside and Ashlyn looked at Ali with a mixture of surprise and amazement, and pointed at the tea and biscuits. “When did you... how...?”

Ali smiled smugly and raised her eyebrows.

“Aren't you a detective?” Ashlyn fixed her hazel eyes on Ali's warm brown ones astonished by her smug, sneaky answer, but her lip twitched in a small proud side smile, and she nodded, satisfied, before walking inside. Ali couldn't help grinning after she left, feeling incredibly satisfied, and got up to make her boss a tea mug.

As they left, Ali rushed to her phone and, feeling incredibly curious about what she had heard, typed 'Ashlyn Harris NAVY'. Dozens of results came in:

'Falmouth Club and National Goalkeeper Curtis Harris, gravely injured in hospital.'

'Keeper Curtis Harris, imprisoned for life.'

'Goalkeeper Curtis Harris' daughter joins RNP.'

'Ashlyn Harris, daughter of GK and murderer Curtis Harris, joins the RNP's SIB'.

'A story of tragedy; former national keeper's family goes from 4 to 1'.

Ali's jaw was on the floor by then, and she felt horribly like she had intruded somewhere. Nevertheless, she was so curious she couldn't help clicking on the one before last link to access an article of The Daily Telegraph from 2005, and the story unfolded below.

_It was the night of June 14 th 1994, and the once praised and popular England's National Football Team and Falmouth A.F.C.'s goalkeeper Curtis Harris, then Falmouth A.F.C.'s coach, father of 2 and born in a humble, lower-class Cornish family in the early 50s, was admitted to the Royal Cornwall Hospital in Truro in the verge of death._

_He survived, but his torments had only just begun. That night, his then thirteen-year-old daughter and also goalkeeper in junior teams Ashlyn Harris confessed to having attacked him, punching him several times and then stabbing him with a pocket-knife, after she caught him beating her mother-up. Tammye Harris, then Curtis's wife of seventeen years, was in the same night attended by paramedics suffering severe concussions, fractures and internal trauma matching her daughter's story. Only days later, she'd admit her husband had been violent with her for many years, and sometimes with her daughter too._

_Two years later, Curtis Harris was sentenced to life, able to do just twenty years in prison, facing one count of spontaneous attempted murder, and several for domestic violence..._

Ali closed her eyes and took a deep breath. That was Ashlyn's childhood? Feeling like she was intruding more than ever, she skipped to the point of the article where they actually focused on the RNP.

_These years have been enough to change Ashlyn Harris' path forever. After joining the Royal Navy in January 2000, following in the steps of grandfather Captain James Habovick,World War II hero, Harris' progress has been fast and she's just joined the Royal Navy Police's Special Investigations Branch, after achieving all the necessary qualifications with top marks and in record time._

The teapot started boiling and Ali closed her internet tabs before going to prepare tea. Ali interrupted the meeting to handle Ashlyn her mug, and as the blonde thanked her, she slip a paper inside her hand. Coming back to her desk, Ali opened to read 'research on Lula Landry' scribbled with the same handwriting she had seen in the 'Exempt from payment' words before. Ali's heart jumped in her chest. Lula Landry was that man's adopted little sister? She knew Lula Landry. The black, stunningly gorgeous, young woman, was only two years younger than Ali herself, and had died past February, being found dead on the street in the snow one night, after throwing herself from her balcony. Nevertheless, Ali researched on her and the full report was ready and printed by the time Ashlyn bid farewell to Bristow, an hour later.

With a long puff, Ashlyn flopped roughly on the sofa, leaning back and looked at Ali with astonishment.

“So we have a client, maybe,” Ashlyn announced.

“Maybe?” Ali handed her the report, walking around her desk and sitting on the wooden surface in front of her. Ashlyn grabbed the report and raised her eyebrows with a satisfied nod, impressed.

“John's sister Lula committed suicide, but he seems pretty sure that she was murdered,” Ali gasped, and Ashlyn nodded in agreement. “He wants me to investigate it, but I'm not sure there's anything to investigate. Apparently Lula lived in this private high security building, only three storeys plus ground floor, and three flats, one per storey. Lula lived in the top one, the second was empty, and the third is the home of her Enric and Tansy Bestigui. You may know Mr Bestigui as the film director. The caretaker of the building, also security man and receptionist didn't see anyone coming in or leaving around the time of her death, and the security cameras didn't find anything odd. It's a high-profile case with the press on police's backs, so it's highly unlikely that the Met missed anything, but...”

“You'll still check it out.”

“Exactly,” Ashlyn nodded. “Wanna come visit it in Mayfair?” she added as she continued reading the report. “If you're free. I highly doubt we'll get any other client, too much of a miracle for one day.”

“Sure!” Ali clapped her hands in excitement and Ashlyn looked up and chuckled, shaking her head as Ali blushed heavily.

“That's enthusiasm, what a refreshing novelty,” Ashlyn commented. “This report is spectacular, Ms Krieger. Concise, straight to the point, doesn't leave anything important out, clear, and objective. I admit to be impressed, and I don't get impressed easily.” Ali grinned, blushing harder.

“Thanks!”

“Grab your coat, we're leaving,” Ashlyn stood up and put on her long grey coat that hung from the coat rack, handing Ali hers before leaving the report on Ali's desk and holding the office door open for her. Ali turned off the computer, took her coat with a quick thanks, grabbed her purse and umbrella and followed her.

Even with heels, she was way shorter than Ashlyn.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember Fanfic Authors are often unappreciated. Yes, we don't write best sellers, we write for love and we write for free, when we have time, through studies, jobs, life... we write because we love writing, but we CHOOSE to share what we write with you, so the least you can do is show your writers your appreciation. As you can see I spent a whole year writing without necessarily publishing, because like many others, I don't NEED to publish. I do it hoping it'll bring other people the joy it brings me to read and write. But it's up to you to keep updates going, and not make us feel like we might as well keep the work to ourselves. Thank you!


	3. Fire meets gasoline

As they walked next to each other at a calm rhythm, Ashlyn reflected that Ali was the kind of woman she would've flirted with right away, if she wasn't her employee, and if Ashlyn hadn't just gotten out of a long, difficult relationship that had taken the best and worst of her and worn her out completely. She had also noticed the huge engagement ring in Ali's finger, and to her that ring felt like the invisible wall keeping her from doing a stupid thing and losing the most efficient assistant she had ever had.

“So,” Ashlyn started as it started raining and they squeezed under Ali's purple umbrella, that Ashlyn held because she was taller and also a gentlewoman, “you're efficient, you're smart, and you're good at finances. Who have you killed?”

“Sorry?”

“To be working at a shit temp job agency, instead of being the head of some huge company,” Ali blushed heavily and smiled shyly. “I mean, you have to have a criminal record, right? It's okay, I've got mine.” She side smiled small. Ashlyn had an odd accent that sounded Southern to Ali, but also not entirely pure, as if it had mixed with others.

“Now I'm scared,” Ali joked, going along. “I promise my record is clean as...” she looked around, thoughtful. “Your nails.” Ashlyn laughed, looking at her nails, who were in fact spotless and neatly short. “I've just only been in London for a few months. And I never got a university degree.”

“Oh, me neither,” Ashlyn shrugged. “Nothing bad about it, although London snobs do tend to...” Ashlyn shrugged. “Demand stupid stuff,” Ali snorted a laugh, and they entered the Tottenham Court Road Tube station. “Let me guess, you're from... Leeds.”

“Close. Masham,” Ali explained, looking at Ashlyn's legs as she limped her way down the stairs precariously, afraid she'd fall, “it's in...”

“North Yorkshire.”

“You know it?” Ali asked, surprised.

“Drove by it once a few years ago. God, I hate these multitudes...” Ashlyn pushed her way between the people and found them seats in a wagon.

“Did you grow-up here?” Ali asked, curious, figuring that with the answers she had given, she had earned some in return. “Your accent is quite mixed.”

“I sort of...” Ashlyn looked at her and half-shrugged. She decided if Ali had had the politeness not to read all about her online, she should take advantage and tell things her way. “I'm from St. Mawes, a cute little beach town in Cornwall,” so like her Dad, “but in my teens, Mum didn't have much money and we came to London, then as you heard I joined the Navy, so back to Cornwall to complete training, and I worked in ships here and there for a few years before I joined the Royal Navy Police, that brought me all around the world. In the last few years I was working here in London, so when I retired I stayed here.”

“Globetrotter. Cool! I've never left Masham... well, actually I went to Oxford, but dropped out.”

“Really?” Ashlyn looked truly surprised. “What a coincidence. I also went to Oxford and dropped out. Three months, that's as much as I lasted. Bored me.” She chuckled, and Ali didn't press, smiling back and pretending not to notice the slight shadow in her eyes. “Why did you drop out?” she added casually.

“Uhm...” Ali shrugged, not really liking the topic. “Had some issues with it and went home. So what do we do at Landry's flat?”

Ashlyn was good enough at her job to notice Ali didn't like talking about university. It seemed like neither of them had fond memories of their time as late teenagers, so she didn't mind changed. She liked Ali. Professionally.

“I want to see if there is any possible way someone might've sneaked inside and killed her, or if the police might have missed anything at all.”

“Basically, you want to see if there's the slightest chance we've got a case.”

“That's right,” Ashlyn winked at her, and Ali pretended not to get an odd feeling in the stomach at that.

Eventually they got out of the Tube and, still under the rainfall, they reached the white, luxurious building in Mayfair. Ali whistled in admiration looking up, and Ashlyn nodded, turning around to look at the floor, as she calculated lifting her finger the route from the body in the top floor to fall on the street.

“It's odd,” Ali commented, frowning. “Her body was on the road, not on the pavement. I saw photos of the crime scene when doing the research, and police was making a circle around the road, but the pavement was left free. I'm no physicist, but... if she threw herself on a calm night, wouldn't she had fallen vertical? From the balcony to... the pavement?”

Ashlyn nodded in agreement.

“Are you sure it was the road?” Ashlyn inquired.

“Yes,” Ali searched her phone, as Ashlyn held the umbrella, and showed her the photographs that were online of the police forming a circle around the road, and nothing in the pavements. Everyone was looking somewhere in the road.

“So John wasn't delusional after all...” Ashlyn pursed her lips. “You can't always trust family members, because they're crazy about finding someone to blame, you know? So I was a bit sceptic when he said he didn't believe his sister would ever throw herself like this. He said she was happy, doing great at work. Their mother is very ill,” she added, almost in Ali's ear so she heard her despite the noise of the rain, giving Ali chills, “so he's really trying to console her with a murderer. Easier than have her accept that she didn't raise a happy child.”

“Poor thing,” Ali sighed. “Money really doesn't give it all, uh? So you think we've got a case?”

“It depends.”

Ashlyn moved her head towards the building and they walked over there, so the detective pressed a long finger against the intercom button. The security guard slash caretaker's voice came up.

“Who is it?”

“It's Ashlyn Harris, I come from John Bristow,” she said. The door clicked open and she looked at Ali. “Told John to make sure I could come in. Miss...” she held the door open for her, making sure she didn't get wet like one of Ashlyn's arms had, and Ali smiled small and went inside, without knowing Ashlyn's heart had accelerated with that smile. _Dangerous territory, Harris. She's not even gay, look at her.._

“Hello,” a suited man appeared, offering a hand, “Derrick Wilson, nice to meet you.”

“Hi, I'm Private Detective Ashlyn Harris, and this is my assistant, Alexandra Krieger,” Ashlyn introduced, and they all shook hands. “I'm sorry to bother you, but John just wanted me to have a last look at the investigation, I'm a family friend so I guess he trusts me more than police and probably thinks if I say it was suicide, it'll be easier for their sick mother to accept.”

“It's okay, I get it. Lula was the sweetest person here, always treated the service like human beings, you know? Rich people don't, usually, do that,” Mr Wilson explained, looking around as if fearing a neighbour might have heard. “I want for it to be murder too. I'd rather think she wasn't depressed and unhappy to the point of killing herself, but that she was a happy person who had a good life and simply met the wrong person.”

“Whatever the truth is, we will find it,” Ali affirmed full of confidence. “Detective Harris is really, really good. Never fails.” Ashlyn did a conscious effort to not make a surprised face nor smile smugly of pride at hearing her assistant talk like that about her, and nodded making her best serious face.

They moved on to the lift and the two women were left alone in Lula's flat. They walked outside to the balcony from whom Lula had supposedly thrown herself, and concluded that there was really no way Lula could've jumped from there with enough impulse by herself to end on the road. She should've ended on the pavement nearest to the building, unless someone had pushed her strongly. They took pictures around with their phones and Ashlyn's little digital camera, and eventually decided to end things for the day.

“What do you think?” Ali asked as they walked outside, with the rain having finally stopped.

“Lula lived in a nice place. Everyone says she was happy. According to your report, she was wearing a nice party dress when she was found dead, with a wrap she had presumably used to be less cold in the balcony, but why would she put that on if she went out to kill herself? And Mr Wilson said she had just arrived home in a more casual wear, so she clearly changed into something more elegant right before she died. Why? To kill herself?” Ashlyn frowned. “I need to speak with the police tomorrow. I've got a friend, he might get us access to their information... but this is too weird for suicide. I've investigated suicides, they're not this complex and they don't smell this dirty.”

“All right,” Ali smiled. “Good.”

They returned to the Tube but separated at the station. Ashlyn would take one to Denmark Street again, and Ali back home for the day, to Ealing.

“See you tomorrow,” Ashlyn said with a warm smile.

“Yeah, take care of that limp,” Ali returned the smile and turned around. Ashlyn stood confused for a moment, but then chuckled.

“Congrats on the wedding!” Ali almost stumbled due to the surprise, but waved back.

“Thanks!”

Ashlyn had to stand in the Tube this time around, and her knee was killing her. She had long ago suffered an ACL injury, got surgery for it, but then one time fell and almost tore her ACL again. Ever since, it hurt. The doctor said even though there was no tear, it was true that there was a slight tendon damage and muscular, and she'd need surgery if she wanted it repaired, but it wasn't urgent and Ashlyn hated the idea of going into a hospital or having surgery and being in a cast for ages. Besides, now she couldn't afford rest. She needed to keep working in order to live, and she couldn't do her job properly without moving around. So she held on to the painkillers and hoped to delay the surgery until her agency wasn't sinking.

Alone now, the pain of losing Lisbeth became too real. Bye to her fiancée, her girlfriend on-and-off of the past eleven years, their shared luxurious apartment in Chelsea that Lisbeth paid on her own... Her chest filled with an incredible hollowness, and she set her path towards the store, to get the essentials she needed at the lowest possible price, all while ignoring her friends, that texted or called her every now and then.

A feeling of choking was enough for Ashlyn to wake up, gasping for air and sitting up as she coughed as if she had really been asphyxiating. She was on her inner office's sofa, her blanket had fallen to the floor, and it was raining softly again. Only then, she noticed there was a persistent knock on her door, and then it softly opened, just a little, but no one peeked.

“Detective Harris?” Ali's voice came up. “It's ten. Would you like the tea creosote, like I made it yesterday?”

That simple sentence, together with the gentleness of her voice, told Ashlyn one, that she had been doing something embarrassing like screaming in her sleep, which explained Ashlyn's own sore throat, because Ali didn't need to ask if she was there. Two, that her assistant had, confirmed, a heart of gold and respected her enough to call her 'Detective Harris', make no mention of her screaming or sleeping in the office, and pretend she knew nothing so Ashlyn could pretend to still have some ounce of dignity. Three, Ali was saying 'I'll be making tea in the kitchenette, if you want to go to the bathroom I won't see'. She felt her heart grow of absolute fondness for that woman in a matter of seconds. That, united to the privacy compromise Ali had left at her desk the day before, gave her an idea that she was really going to miss Ali when she left in only a few days.

“Yeah, thank you!” Ashlyn saw the door close and took a shuddering breath, grabbing her mobile from her desk. Her alarm had sounded, but she apparently didn't hear it.

Getting dressed in a rush, Ashlyn made a quick go to the bathroom, still feeling her knee ache a little, and washed her face, urinated, and fixed the bun she had slept with, before facing Ali with an apologetic smile as she accepted the perfect, dark, creosote tea and flopped on the sofa.

“You're the nicest, thank you. I'm sorry, fell asleep late reading about Lula,” Ashlyn saw a bouquet of flowers in the bin, with an unopened card, and the brightness in Ali's eyes gone, and knew right away that something was off, but Ali smiled big nevertheless, warming her cold insides from her position in front of the computer, where she was also drinking some tea. Ashlyn noticed their mugs were new and didn't look like the ones from the day before, which she didn't see in the kitchenette. The electric kettle was also different.

“It's okay, no one came in the meantime. Any new ideas for the case?” before Ashlyn could answer, her stomach grumbled loudly. She had bought some bread and cheese to eat sandwiches continuously for the week, given her lack of money, but she had forgotten to eat the night before, as she fell asleep while working to distract herself from Lisbeth. Ali chuckled at her face of deer caught in highlights and went to the kitchenette, opening a drawer and pulling a pack of biscuits she offered to Ashlyn, who took it in total astonishment.

“Okay, where did all of this come from?” Ashlyn asked while munching a biscuit. “Not complaining, but... I'm starting to think you're a witch or something.”

Ali snorted a laugh, shaking her head with amusement, and Ashlyn congratulated herself internally for bringing brightness back into her eyes.

“So no detecting?” Ali teased.

“Come on, cut me some slack, I just woke up.”

“All right... yesterday I asked Mr Crowdy for the stuff-,”

“Mr Crowdy?”

“Yeah, the digital designer in the office below,” Ali said matter-of-factly. Ashlyn raised her eyebrows. “Seriously? How many years have you been here?”

“Tell me who gave you this stuff today.”

“No one. I had the kettle home, it's an old one my fiancé dislikes because he says he doesn't like it's transparent, and he got a new one, so we no longer use this, you may keep it. And I bought the mugs, biscuits and tea as a thank you for saving my life yesterday,” Ali shrugged. “Not a big deal.”

“No way, let me pay you at least the tea...”

“Detective,” Ali shook her head. “I got a look at the accounts earlier today. Even when Mr Bristow pays, it's better you don't spend on silly stuff right now, seriously. Besides, I'm enjoying the tea too.”

Ashlyn sighed but nodded, knowing she was right, although she didn't like it.

“Thank you, Ms Krieger.” Ashlyn gave her tea a long gulp and enjoyed every bit of it. “So why do you hate flowers, if I may ask?” she added casually.

Ali was sitting on top of the desk surface with the mug between her hands and her legs crossed at the ankles, so Ashlyn made a conscious effort of not staring at her long, muscular legs and look up at her face. That's how she caught Ali's light, very brief frown, as the brunette looked at the flowers.

“I don't hate flowers, I just hate that men think they can solve it all with a few flowers, you know?” Ashlyn nodded slowly, but then her mobile rang.

“Sorry, I was waiting for an acquaintance at the police... Detective Harris,” Ashlyn said pressing the phone against her ear. “Hi Abby, thanks for helping a girl out. Okay, I'll meet you there then,” she hung up and looked at Ali. “Do we have any appointments today?”

“No. Although a Whitney called twice asking where were you, and I said you were with a client.” Ashlyn cursed to her insides.

“Right, thanks. Want to come with me have lunch with an old friend from the Navy? Detective Inspector Abby Wambach owes me a big favour, and is always willing to lend me a hand. She has juicy info about Lula.”

Ali's face lightened-up as she heard the invite, and she grinned, nodding and jumping to her feet, leaving the empty mug in the kitchenette and rushing to grab her things. Ashlyn liked her enthusiasm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember Fanfic Authors are often unappreciated. Yes, we don't write best sellers, we write for love and we write for free, when we have time, through studies, jobs, life... we write because we love writing, but we CHOOSE to share what we write with you, so the least you can do is show your writers your appreciation. As you can see I spent a whole year writing without necessarily publishing, because like many others, I don't NEED to publish. I do it hoping it'll bring other people the joy it brings me to read and write. But it's up to you to keep updates going, and not make us feel like we might as well keep the work to ourselves. Thank you!


	4. Reacquainted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER:
> 
> All of this is FICTION. Even when there are characters named after and inspired on real people, and even when there might be real locations and historical events. It's still a FICTIONAL story, and it's not meant to detriment, insult or hurt anyone, but only with the purpose of entertainment.
> 
> I think we can all use some entertainment in our lives through these difficult times. I don't know you, but I've lost nearly everything over Covid. I no longer have a job, a career, and all my professional plans for this year are, as for now, cancelled. I can't even make any future professional plans as for now. I literally had to pack my bags, leave my first house since I moved out from my childhood home, and leave my friends there, my life there, everything, for God knows how long, so I could return home and take care of my elderly mother less than a week ago. And now I'm fighting to stay healthy so I can keep her healthy and take care of her, while we live on our savings, that's all we have left. And writing brings me a little bit of joy and for what I see, reading brings you a bit of joy too, and I think we can all use as much joy now as we can get. So that's the only purpose of fanfiction for me, nothing else, and certainly, nothing moved by some "white saviour complex" or a desire to deprecate anyone or anything.
> 
> Thank you all for your support and your comments. We will get through this, I don't know how, I don't know when, but we will. Trust me on this.

**Chapter 4: Reacquainted.**

The two walked fifteen minutes to a pub near a small park, making small talk, but being mostly in comfortable silence, without feeling a need to fill the silences with conversation. Abby knew of Ashlyn's economical problems and had offered to invite both women. Ashlyn would normally refuse, but she had done her Math and had enough for one or two, if lucky, sandwiches a day, so she couldn't really refuse if she wanted to stay alive a month more. If she could solve the Landry case, John would pay enough to keep her going three months more, and then she could always run back to Cornwall.

She spotted Abby as soon as they walked into the dinning area of the pub. Abby was only a couple years older than Ashlyn, and had left the Navy at the same time Ashlyn had, going to work in the Metropolitan Police or Met. She was slightly taller than Ashlyn, wide-back, fit, muscled, and had short dyed blonde hair and tomboy features, dressing with a tie-less suit. She spotted Ashlyn and Ali and grinned, running to hug her friend tightly.

“Ash! It's been so long! How have you been, dude? How's Beth? Got a wedding date yet?”

“Slow down my friend,” Ashlyn smiled, separating. “This is...”

“Ali,” Ali offered her hand and a smile, and Abby shook it.

“Abby. Ashlyn says you're the most efficient assistant in the world.” Ali blushed, shrugging.

“Not really, I guess the ones before me were just useless and set the bar low.”

“I need to talk about Lula,” Ashlyn said as they sat down.

“Straight to the point as always,” Abby chuckled in amusement, her blue eyes looking briefly at Ashlyn while passing Ali a menu. “Wardle got the case, mate. It's unlikely he left anything out, he's good at his job. I think it was suicide.”

“Doesn't make sense,” Ashlyn looked thoughtful, and after asking the waiter for a Doom Bar, she supported her chin on her knuckles. “For what I've read, Lula was making a ton of money, had just signed a big deal with designer Guy Sommé, and was rumoured to have a boyfriend. She changed into something more elegant before she died, as if she was waiting for someone, maybe that boyfriend. And the only guard is Derrick, what are the odds he had a human mistake and didn't see the murderer?”

“The cameras would've. They didn't get anyone. I've gotten you the footage, as you wanted,” Abby dug in her briefcase and pulled out a CD case she gave to Ashlyn, who put it inside her coat. “I know it's an odd case, but just think, how did the murderer, if there was one, get inside and out without the cameras or the guard seeing? Where did they hide? How? You can't enter the building if they don't open. And the only other people living there weren't there at the point, save for Tansy Bestigui, who said she was watching TV and didn't hear anything. Wardle interrogated the employees, everyone had alibis.”

“Any chance Wardle will speak to me?”

“He hates private dets, he would never talk to you. So were you friends of Lula? Because you know as much as I do-”

“I didn't know Lula,” Ashlyn interrupted. “I knew her eldest brother Charlie, he was a school friend of mine in my teens when I first came to London,” Ali dissimulated her curiosity the best she could. “Charlie is now dead, but I met John back then, I used to hang at their house. And when Charlie died, I lost contact with them and they adopted Lula, so I never knew she existed until yesterday.”

“All right, so it's nothing personal,” Abby nodded. “He's going to pay well I presume? No forgiving debts this time?”

“I only forgive good people's debts. I never liked John much, and I never forgive the debts of those who can pay. John offered a ton, and right now it'd come very in handy, being honest.”

They quieted down for a second as a waiter came to bring the rest of their drinks and take their meal orders, and then when he left, Abby leaned over the table, around which they sat forming an 'u' shape, with a window in front of Ashlyn, who sat between both women.

“So why would anybody kill Lula?” Abby inquired, looking between the two, so Ali felt included.

“Money?” Ali felt entitled to suggest. “She was pretty rich.”

“Either money or passion,” Ashlyn nodded to Ali approvingly. “Money would mean they planned this very thoroughly, making it look like suicide and fooling police, so it would be very fitting. The murderer wanted to get the money at all costs, and they well thoroughly smart, making sure they never got caught. That also means that if they got the money, they might be far away in the Bahamas or somewhere out of our reach. On the other hand, passion doesn't seem fitting, but we still need to check it out.”

“Why doesn't it seem fitting?” Ali asked.

“Because passion means feelings, emotions, losing control,” Ashlyn explained. “Those are the ones that get caught very easily. The killer didn't arrive wanting to murder someone, but to have a conversation or something like that, and in a matter of seconds they became murderers because they let their feelings get the best of them. Then the killer usually gets overwhelmed with fear and the shock of what they've done, run away, and leave tons of evidence behind, very careless. With money, the killer becomes a murderer months before as they plan the murder, they're psychopaths and don't freak out about what they do, take their time.”

“I see,” Ali nodded, heavily interested and focused, almost abandoning her coke. “And can't they mix? For example, can't someone kill for money without planning it?”

“Yes,” Abby affirmed. “Doesn't happen often, though. When it is about money, as Ashlyn said, it's more than just mere murder. The killer's main goal is to become billionaire, they're obsessed about the idea and will be incredibly intelligent, so it's not likely that they'll come just for a chat if they want the money that much and then end up killing. Never say never, but it'd be extremely rare in this case, with such enormous lack of evidence.”

“Understood. Then who makes the most money with this?” Ali inquired then.

“John?” Abby asked. “There was no will, so...”

“No,” Ashlyn shook her head. “England's law says if you die without a will, and there are no children or legal partners, as it is the case, your belongings go in equal parts to your parents. In Lula's case, Mr Bristow died years ago, and as far as I'm concerned, Lady Bristow is really ill, dying, but still very much alive. So she would be the first to benefit, but there's no way she could've killed someone in her state. I'm going to visit her later to make sure of it anyway, she might remember me, she was always nice to me.”

“She's rich anyway, right? So she wouldn't care about the money,” Ali suggested. “Lula was black, is Lady Bristow black? If she's white, maybe she disliked Lula and ordered someone to kill her just for that.”

Abby and Ashlyn chuckled at the improbable suggestion, but didn't mock her.

“She's white,” Ashlyn smiled small. “But I doubt she disliked Lula. Lula got her mother's surname, Landry, for work, which suggests they were close. Furthermore, the Bristows couldn't have children naturally, but they really wanted a family. Charlie told me they wanted one so badly that it's why they started adopting, so all of them were adopted. When we were little, I remember Charlie was very... pampered, spoiled. Loved. Lady Bristow fell into a heavy depression when he died. Charlie was just a very good person, fun and...” Ashlyn sighed, and Ali frowned not wanting her to be sad about her friend. “Cool guy. Always getting into adventures.”

“Sounds like he died young,” Ali commented before she could stop herself. Ashlyn nodded.

“We were eight. He was riding a bicycle over Easter holidays, the family had gone to the countryside, and apparently he lost control of his bicycle, went down a hill, crashed with a half-wall that separated from a quarry down below, and he just... went over the... thing.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Abby frowned. Ali's eyes had widened in shock.

“Yeah... it was very tragic. Our teacher told us when the holidays ended,” Ashlyn recalled it angrily in her head.

The teacher coming into the class, a teacher that had always disliked Charlie, and very insensitively she just said 'so Charlie Bristow died' and went over chastising them about the risks of being reckless and how he pretty much had it coming, with the class so in shock a girl had started crying and ran out of the class.

Ali noticed her jaw tense and her eyes get lost for a moment, and felt bad for asking.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Losing a good friend at that age... sucks.” Ashlyn shrugged and half smiled dryly.

“We weren't that close,” she lied, “barely remember those days anyway,” she added, lying again shamelessly. “I do remember his family a lot, because they were the richest family I knew then, and I was very impressed. They had this huge house, maybe they still have it, with the greatest garden, a pool and like... house workers doing everything for them. Every time Charlie came to school, he appeared in this huge car with a chauffeur, the entire class flipped, although he didn't like it, but his mother was very anxious about his safety, ironically.”

“I hate snobs,” Abby puffed. “Unless you're one, Ali.” She added with half a smile. Ali grinned and shook her head.

“Middle-upper, I suppose. At least my parents, but you should see my flat. My partner wants us to move into a big house when we marry, because he _does_ come from the upper class, used to big things.”

“Oh, I didn't see that rock!” Abby nodded in approval. “Nice, congratulations! Engaged for long?”

“No... just days,” Ali said cheerfully. “Thanks!”

“I hope he's a good guy. Not like Ash's...”

“Abby,” Ashlyn said sternly, giving her a warning with her eyes. Abby nodded, and Ali pretended not to notice and not to know they were talking about Ashlyn's criminal Dad.

“Oh, he's really good,” Ali nodded, trying to save Ashlyn from her discomfort. “He's an accountant, super smart. That way I don't have to do our books, he's got a very good eye for Math. And he's also super handsome.”

“Shit, I hired the wrong person,” Ashlyn joked with a chuckle, and Ali giggled.

Their food arrived and Ashlyn's phone rang. She was going to get up to answer, but when she saw John's name on the screen, she remained sitting, pressing the phone against her ear and looking at Abby.

“Hi John, what's up?” Ashlyn remained silent as she listened, stopping eating, and then nodded. “Oh, fantastic, thank you John, that's great. Yeah, I went yesterday... well, I think there's material to dig in and investigate, but I can't tell you much for now. When I know for sure if it was suicide or murder, I'll call you. Thanks, bye.” She hung up and grinned. “John said we could go today at three to her mother's house to interview her. He wants to be present, so we agreed to meet on point by the front door, they still live where I know.”

“Cornwall?” Ali asked, frowning.

“Oh, no, here, just by Greenwich. Cornwall?”

“I'm sorry, I thought...” Ali shook her head. “I thought because you knew them when little, it was when you lived in Cornwall.”

“Oh, I was truly a globetrotter,” Ashlyn clarified. “I supposedly lived in Cornwall back then, but you know, parents' jobs... got us around London a lot. In fact, I left the school where I met Charlie months after he died and went back to Cornwall. It wasn't until my teens that we definitely established here, and even then, I went back as often as possible. No city in the world, Ali, compares to Cornwall, and more specifically, with my hometown. St. Mawes is perfect.”

“Forgive her nonsense, Ali,” Abby intervened amused. “She doesn't know what she's talking about, she's deluding now that the thirties are coming up. Devon is the best possible place in the world.” Ashlyn puffed, rolling eyes but clearly joking around, and Ali giggled, amused by the two friends.

“So your 30th birthday is coming up?” Ali asked Ashlyn, curious. “When is it? I'll tell you mine.”

“October 19th.”

“Oh, Libra,” Ali raised eyebrows. “Explains a lot.”

“God, you believe in those things?”

“Hey, you would too! Thirsty for justice, diplomatic, empathetic...” Ali raised eyebrows and Ashlyn had to admit she was right, nodding.

“All right, so what's yours?”

“July 28th, Leo, just passed. But I only turned twenty-five.”

“Lucky you!” Abby chuckled. “Thirties make me feel old.”

“So what does Leo mean?” Ashlyn asked.

“We've got a bit too much vanity, but we're super loyal, fearless, strong... we're lions!”

Ashlyn and Abby laughed, diverted, and Ali chuckled at them, enjoying their time together more than any other time she had had in London in all the months she had been there.

  
  



	5. Past knocks on the door

**Chapter 5: Past knocks on the door.**

They speed up their lunch and then went back to the office to check, the three together, all that Abby had given them, such as photographs of the body, crime scene and Lula's house, documents, and the suspects they had interrogated. Abby had asked a few favours to get those things to Ashlyn, convincing Wardle that it was just to leave the Bristows be calm.

“Here,” Ashlyn pointed to Lula's body, “that dress is at least two hundred pounds. Not to kill yourself with,” she then saw Ali look away from the body, shocked, and realized she had forgotten Ali wasn't able to see that. “Sorry.”

“It's fine, I can see,” Ali forced herself to look again and pretend it was just a TV Show. “You're right, that's an expensive dress.”

“Not enough to reopen the investigation,” Abby commented, sitting on Ashlyn's desk's surface.

“Let's see the CCTV footage,” Ashlyn put the disc in her laptop and clicked play. The footage showed the street just outside Lula's flat, dark at night. Nothing showed for a while, and then a figure all dressed black, with gloves and a hoodie, walked past the street, their face unseen. “Who's that? Did police investigate?”

“Oh, yeah, just a passer-by. They never figured who he was, but since there was no evidence of murder, no one went after them. There's no way of seeing his face.”

“Smells like a suspect,” Ali murmured.

“If it's murder, then they're the main suspect,” Ashlyn agreed with a nod. “No more CCTV?”

“No more. Police interrogated Wilson, who said he was by the front door the entire time of the crime, no way he missed someone. And Mrs Bestigui was the only one left in the building. Mr Bestigui left for a work-related emergency, Wilson confirmed it, two hours before the crime. He came back at the same time police did.”

“When did she die?” asked Ashlyn.

“Forensic said at around eleven at night, but the family refused an autopsy, saying it was out of respect for Lula,” Abby puffed.

“Okay, she changed into that dress at that hour of the night?” Ali snorted a laugh. “There are only three possibilities here. Either she was so bloody rich that was actually her pyjama, or she was waiting for someone, or she was so odd to decide that was her suicide dress.”

Ashlyn nodded, and still played the CCTV video for a few more times before she put it aside and closed her computer to then look at the suspects police had interrogated but ruled out. John Bristow was at work at his Uncle's law firm, and they were each others' alibi. Lady Bristow was convalescent home. The only service who had been at the apartment building when Lula died was a cleaning service in the second floor, but Lula's door hadn't been forced, which meant that if there was a murderer, she knew them and let them in.

Parting ways with Abby, Ashlyn and Ali got in the Tube then to march towards the Bristows' mansion in Greenwich on yet another rainy day, and as they sat, Ali texted Eric to let him know she would be home late yet another day more. Ashlyn had drank two beers with ease over lunch, and now sat thoughtful and serious, with a taciturn expression that Ali had by then learned was her normal resting face. Her tattooed arm was this time hidden under her sleeve, jacket and coat, and her long hair, that had been loose during lunch, was put back in a tight bun back at the office.

“Nervous?” Ali asked in a whisper after a few minutes observing her boss. Ashlyn turned to look at her and smiled small, shaking her head.

“Just thinking how a young, successful girl, ended up dead like this. I'm always interested in the story.” The assistant nodded, and Ashlyn looked away.

“You know...” it occurred to Ali suddenly, but she blushed and stopped herself. Ashlyn turning to face her made her continue. “I was thinking... if you ever... needed a place to crash... you know, with the agency's issues and all... I do have a sofa. I mean, even if we stopped working together, you work in the right side of justice, I wouldn't mind offering you my sofa.”

The detective was astonished at the offer, and couldn't hide her great surprise, but at the same time felt tremendously touched. She had only known Ali for a bit over a day, and she was already the sweetest person the former sailor knew.

“Woah, that's so nice of you to say, Ms Krieger, thank you.”

“Ali.”

“Sorry?”

“You can call me Ali, everyone does,” Ali side-smiled.

“Oh... then you can call me however you like,” Ashlyn smiled at her openly. “Don't worry, though. I've got many friends in London, many possibilities to crash... and I might as well.”

“You might?”

Ashlyn opened her mouth to explain, but the Tube stopped at their stop and they rushed out, not having noticed they were already there. Then, they got busy discussing how were things going to go, and arrived at the Bristows' house, but John was nowhere to be seen. They knew it was the right home, because it hadn't changed in twenty-one years. Ashlyn checked in her watch it was past the agreed time, and decided to go on without John.

“You really don't like him, do you?” Ali inquired as they walked down the path through the garden and towards the mansion, once the fence had been opened through the intercom for them.

“He's a lawyer,” Ashlyn said, “and I don't want him to manipulate his mother's statement. Hello,” they had been reached by the butler, and shook hands, “I'm Ashlyn Harris, went to school with Charlie Bristow, John's big brother. And this is my assistant, Alexandra Krieger.”

“Nice to meet you. Lady Bristow is waiting for you, but you'll have to forgive her,” they followed the man inside the luxurious house, “her head's not right, with her illness. She's got senile dementia. There are good days and bad days, but very often she doesn't remember anyone. Lula's death worsened things.”

Ashlyn nodded in understanding, and they walked inside a room where an old, white-haired woman, lied on an old-styled, luxurious sofa, while a nurse tucked her in with a blanket. The nurse left, and the woman looked up at Ashlyn and Ali, who had been left alone with her.

“Who are you?” she asked with a weak voice, her blue eyes seeking Ashlyn's hazel ones.

“Hello, Lady Bristow,” Ashlyn smiled warmly, squatting in front of the sofa to lock eyes with her. “I'm Ashlyn, Charlie's friend, remember me? I grew-up a little.”

Ali stood behind and observed, moved, how tender and soft Ashlyn, whose brick face and muscled body made it easy to imagine her beating someone up to death, was with the old, dying, grieving woman. She could see the detective was, hands down, a good woman, and this knowledge made her want to be loyal and useful to her, for as little as they got to work together. Truth was, Ali had always wanted to do some police job, and as a child wanted to be a cop. Seeing her new boss was a detective had made her be so excited and she didn't want for the week to end and send her to another boring, temporary secretary job.

Lady Bristow had finally recognized Ashlyn, and grinned tenderly while patting her face.

“Oh, my dear! How's your Mum and brother?” Ashlyn smiled small, touched by her ability to remember her family despite her situation, and decided not to bring more sadness into the woman.

“In peace,” Ashlyn replied, as this wasn't fully a lie. “Lady Bristow, I'm a Private Detective now, and I'm here because I want to find out what happened to Lula. I want to bring you peace, but I need your help.”

Without skipping a beat, the elderly woman nodded and said:

“Anything you need.”

**. . .**

Ashlyn downed her sixth can of Doom Bar for the night, her head pounding and her knee complaining as she flopped back on her chair and, with eyes reddened by her contacts and the prolonged exposition to both contamination and screen light, she fixed her attention back on the statement that Lady Bristow had given her and she had handwritten and then typed into the computer with four fingers, two of each hand. John had phoned her furious about her interrogating his mother alone, when he had wanted to be there, but traffic had made it impossible for him to be on time. Ashlyn didn't feel the slightest remorse.

As her eyes closed and her forehead fell against the wooden surface of her desk, she had a clear picture in her mind of a young blonde boy with brown eyes and a charming smile, taking her hand and offering her his bicycle so she wouldn't be late to soccer practice one Sunday afternoon and get beaten by her Dad. That same bicycle that killed that same boy that now morphed into the shape of an older boy, a fifteen year old teenager, with the hair getting darker and slightly longer, a little curly, and the eyes turning a little golden, the smile broader and the cheeks covered in a small amount of beginnings of puberty.

She woke up with the sun and dark bags under her eyes, her phone buzzing insistently. First, there was a text from her oldest friend Whitney;

' **Ash, please let me know you're alive. Whatever's going on, you know I love you.** '

This was followed by a text from Lisbeth.

' **Won't be home from 9AM to noon, if you wish to pick up your stuff.** '

Ashlyn, who had thought her stuff would have been burned in the chimney by now, was surprised, relieved and anxious all at once. It was very early, and she was starting to smell rough after three days without a shower, so she got up, packed her holdall -leaving Lisbeth she had grabbed a backpack with her most important belongings and a few clothes, and a holdall with some more- with clean clothes and a plastic bag of those that went to laundry, and left the office, locking after herself, as Ali had keys.

Her first stop was a launderette, where she left all the stuff that needed cleaning and spent a ridiculous amount of money, and her following stop was the University of London building, into which she managed to sneak and get a good, warm shower, before going to pick up her stuff at Beth's. Lisbeth Campbell had been her girlfriend for barely eleven years, and her fiancée for over a year, so this wasn't an easy break-up. She was Ashlyn's longest relationship ever, the most meaningful one, and the one that had survived all sorts of heartbreak, trouble, and difficulties. Ashlyn had seen ships sink for less turmoil than their relationship, that had lasted so long.

Just like Ashlyn was one of the very few people to call her Beth, she was one of the very few people -if not the only one- to call her Ashy, a nickname Ashlyn had hated her whole life until she heard it from Lisbeth's lips. Beth had become her lifejacket for eleven years, her biggest reason to get out of bed and live every single day, instead of getting high and drunk and miserable, and without her, Ashlyn had to admit she felt lost. But like heroine, she was life-threatening as much as relieving, and had become so toxic Ashlyn knew without a doubt that no matter what, they had to be over.

This knowledge didn't make appearing at what had been their shared flat for over a year -and sporadically whenever Ashlyn was in London for eleven years- to pick up her things any easier. As she entered the flat, her stomach knotted and she saw her Navy Police dark blue beret with its anchor badge was on the small table in the hall. She took it feeling the soft texture between her fingers and looked inside the flat, past the boxes forming a small mountain in the hall.

“Beth?” Ashlyn shouted. “Beth!”

Confirming she was alone, Ashlyn took a look of her belongings. Anyone would think Beth had stolen parts of them, because there were only two big boxes, a suitcase and a bag, but the woman had actually packed very nicely for her ex, and Ashlyn knew all her belongings were there. She had always been a person to bring little with herself. Phoning a taxi with the knowledge that there was no other way to bring all of her stuff to Denmark Street, Ashlyn walked around the flat for a last check, seeing that all their photographs that were before in the room had been taken away or substituted, and after taking two boxes down between her arms, hurting her leg further in the process, she also took her bag and suitcase and waited for the taxi.

And hour later and feeling insanely depressed, plus having lost more than half the morning, Ashlyn appeared in the office, limping heavily and a mess of grumbling and grunting as she pushed the door open with one foot. She had a bag hung from her shoulder, the suitcase handle hung from the other, the hard part of it nailing in her shoulder bone, and one box on top of the other between her arms, covering her view.

“Oh!” a woman gasped and grabbed her boxes, setting them aside to reveal a red-faced from the effort, former sailor. In the meantime, Ashlyn faced her friend Whitney. “The heck are you doing?”

“Exercise,” Ashlyn gasped, throat dry, and went to her inner office to leave everything, while Whitney brought the boxes inside as well, and then followed Ashlyn outside to face Ali, who looked astonished, sitting on the wooden surface of the desk.

Ashlyn was limping so heavily that she pretty much fell on the sofa, letting out a sound puff and throwing her head back, closing her eyes and stretching her hurting leg.

“Are you all right?” Ali asked, alarmed. “Where were you?”

“Did you and Beth break-up?” Whitney added, and as Ashlyn opened her eyes, she saw both women stood looking anxiously at her. She decided to just get things over with already.

  
  



	6. Filtration

**Chapter 6: Filtration.**

Ashlyn took a deep breath and nodded, cleaning the sweat off her face with her shirt.

“I'm sorry I vanished this morning, left very early for some errands. Yes, I broke up with Beth, had to pick up my stuff, and yes I am fine, just hurt my knee a little climbing all these fucking stairs with boxes,” she said calmly. “Whitney, what the...” the room was spinning now, and Ashlyn lost track of what she was going to say and closed her eyes, leaning back again waiting for the feeling of intense dizziness to stop.

“Ashlyn?” Whitney sat next to her and shook her gently. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

“I'm fine, gee...” Ashlyn shrugged calmly. “Just... tiny dizzy.”

“When did you last eat?” Ali inquired, moving to prepare more tea, although Whitney and her had spent an interesting half an hour chatting and drinking tea, and handed Ashlyn the biscuits.

“Last night, I guess,” Ashlyn opened her eyes and murmured thanks seeing the biscuits in her hands, grabbing two at once and munching them greedily, her stomach grumbling in hunger. “Sorry, sugar went down, I'm fine.” She added feeling munch better after gulping the biscuits. Whitney's soft brown eyes stared at her in disbelief, and her friend shook her head before moving to hug Ashlyn and kiss the top of her head.

“Fine? I've been so fucking worried, you dumbass,” Whitney murmured, squeezing her tight.

“Don't worry Whit, you know I'm hard to kill,” Ashlyn said in a show of dark humour, grabbing another biscuit from the package.

“Why didn't you have breakfast?”

“Because I forgot, you know it takes me an hour to really be hungry in the mornings,” Ashlyn shrugged again, honest. “But then I was out and Beth texted me to pick up my things and I lost appetite, you know? But it's okay, I'll rest my knee and work from the office today. Got a few phone calls to make anyway.”

“Wait so how come you an Beth broke-up?” Whitney frowned. “And why didn't you answer my calls?”

“We just got a big case, didn't Ali tell you? I'm busy, Whit,” Ashlyn said with a hint of annoyance. “And besides, you never liked Beth.”

“No, but I love you, you're my best fucking friend in the world for over twenty years Ash, and if she made you happy...”

“Well she stopped making me happy and I left her. Period.”

“What did she do this time?”

“Nothing.”

“Ash...”

“Fine!” Ashlyn puffed. “I caught her in our bed,” she grumbled, and Ali pretended to be busy cleaning tea mugs, widening her eyes but turning her back on them, feeling she shouldn't be listening to this conversation, “with two men.”

“Fucking bitch! I'm going to fucking...!”

“You're not going to do anything, Whit,” Ashlyn said more collected, sighting. “I took care of it and we're over.”

“Did she at least apologize?”

“Lisbeth Campbell apologizing?! Come on, don't make me laugh... she said it was meaningless, that I'm the one she loves. But you know who was one of those men?”

“Jago Ross.”

“Exactly right.”

“Bloody predictable bitch. Well she can go and fuck off with her Duke of Croy, you always deserved better. Where are you staying? Nick and I would love to have you.”

“Whit, you guys are trying to have a baby, I'm not going anywhere near your house,” Ashlyn half smiled fooling around.

“Oh, shush you! You're coming with us, no arguing. We're going to pamper you proper. Unless you're staying somewhere nice.”

Ashlyn didn't have the chance to lie to her all-time best friend, because the door opened and a short-haired blonde with perfect curls, sparkling blue eyes, a model-like body and the most symmetrical, spotless features came into the room with a short dress that revealed long legs, and tall heels. She was absolutely stunning, and even Ali stared for a second.

“Hi!” the stranger waved with a sweet grin. “I'm sorry, I was looking for Detective Harris.”

“I am,” Ashlyn stood up, and, doing her best not to limp heavily, walked to shake her hand with a small smile that showed her left dimple. “What can I do for you?” the blonde smiled broadly showing perfect teeth and Ali knew at once that she liked Ashlyn, a sentiment reinforced by both hands holding Ashlyn's.

“My name's Ciara Porter, and...” her expression suddenly turned sad and she frowned. “Lula was my best friend in the world.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry...” Ashlyn blurted immediately, squeezing the hand that she was still holding, due to Ciara's own insistence.

“I heard you were investigating it and I Googled you, you've got quite the incredible reputation, Sergeant. Lula would feel so happy to know justice for her will come from such good hands.”

“ _Former_ Sergeant. Just a Private Detective now, and I will do my best to figure out what happened to your friend. Would you like to tell me about her?”

“Yeah but... not here. Tonight. I'll buy you drinks.”

Ashlyn raised eyebrows. She felt the flirting, she saw the flirting, and she also saw the sadness in Ciara's eyes when she mentioned Lula's name. Her affection was sincere and Ashlyn wondered if there was something else between those two, and Ciara wanted Ashlyn as a rebound. And the former sailor wasn't one to sleep with clients, but Ciara wasn't technically a client, and she was willing to shower her with very necessary information.

Ciara pulled a pen from her purse, took Ashlyn's hand, and wrote a phone number on the back of it.

“Call me,” Ciara said. “I leave work at eight. We should meet then... I want to do everything in my power to catch whoever killed Lula.”

“I thought she killed herself?”

“Not my Lula,” Ciara shook her head. “She'd never kill herself. I don't believe it. See you soon, Serge.” Ciara was a forehead shorter than Ashlyn with the heels and all, so she tiptoed and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

“Have a good afternoon,” Ashlyn mumbled, and the woman left not without making sure Ashlyn saw her swaying hips and curvaceous arse as she left. With a dry throat, Ashlyn turned around and Whitney guffawed.

“Seriously Ash? Come on!”

“I'm not gonna sleep with her, but I need her information. Ali, call Lula's Uncle Tony Landry, I need to get an interview with him. Whitney, can you give me a ride?”

“Depends where.”

“Mayfair, to Lula Landry's flat.”

“Sure. It was very nice to meet you, Ali,” Whitney smiled at the assistant. “Thanks for taking care of my girl.”

“No problem. Ashlyn, don't you want me to join you?” Ali asked, greedy to tag along again.

“I need you here, Ali. If anyone else heard I'm investigating Lula's death and wants to help, someone needs to be here,” Ashlyn looked appreciatively at her and finished her tea in one gulp. “Thank you, I missed you earlier.”

Ali blushed, but the two women were gone, and she was left there to be lonely. In truth, Ali had missed Ashlyn terribly all morning, and had wondered whether she should call, whether she was all right, but when Whitney had come they had spent a good time just chatting about the detective. That's how Ali had learned that Whitney and Ashlyn met at age four, when they both went into the same toddlers football team in St. Mawes, from where they both came. The team had been organized by the school to entertain the kids and keep them active on the weekends, but the two girls and gone on two keep playing, Ashlyn as a goalkeeper and Whitney as a defender, all through their childhood. Whenever Ashlyn left St. Mawes in, what Ali learned, were frequent trips around England -“her Dad worked in football, always around England, and her mother sometimes enjoyed taking her and her brother somewhere different away from football madness”- she would keep playing by herself with her brother, so that when she came back she was still fit for the many teams she and Whitney ended up playing, as they played through school and part of their teens, until Ashlyn moved to London definitely and Whitney decided to focus on her studies, as she was now a lawyer, her dream job.

Meanwhile, Ashlyn was back in Mayfair, talking with Derrick Wilson.

“She arrived at half past eight,” he was saying, “from a party with her friends Ciara Porter and Elijah Adams. She was really happy when I opened the door for her, but didn't mention she was expecting anyone. And then she went up the lift to her attic flat. At ten, the last cleaning service of the day came to clean the second floor flat for DJ Mack, a musician that was going to come the next day to stay a few weeks, but who regretted it after Lula's death. Too much press here, you see? The cleaners left at eleven, when I saw Lula's body fall and... with police and all, they had to go.”

“So she had two and a half hours to die,” Ashlyn nodded for herself, thinking. “And in that span of time, she either killed herself or was killed. Has anyone spoken with the cleaners? If Lula fought with someone, they would've been the first ones to hear.”

“Police did, but they didn't hear. They put on earphones with music when they clean,” Derrick said.

“And you're not with them when they do so? Making sure they don't steal? I mean, these flats come fully furnished, right?”

“Yes, at ten I came up with them for a moment to open the door and to leave a bouquet of white flowers, as it is our usual welcome to new guests, but they're a trustworthy company we've been hiring for years, they don't need to be watched. So instead, I came back here.”

“How long were you upstairs?”

“I don't know... fifteen minutes or so,” Ashlyn scribbled that down in her notebook. “I can put you in contact with Kolovas Jones, he's Lula's preferred driver. Drove her here that night.”

“Yes, thank you. So you left your spot here for fifteen minutes. Is there any chance someone could let themselves in if you weren't here?”

“With a key, yes.”

“So it is possible that if someone had a key, they came here while you weren't in the hall, which can be seen through the window, then went upstairs, and you wouldn't have seen them.”

Derrick seemed to panic.

“But there's no way they would've gotten out without me seeing! And the security cameras...!”

“The security cameras only point to the street, and they leave quite the amount of areas unseen, may I add,” Ashlyn said. “Listen, Derrick, calm down, I'm not accusing you of anything. There could clearly have been a killer. They could've stolen the keys, or been someone Lula knew and trusted with a key, which wouldn't be odd because her door wasn't forced. Did you go back up that night? Was there any moment in which you weren't in the hall again? Perhaps in the bathroom? Please, think this thoroughly. If there is a killer, they might kill again. If there is one, they killed a good, innocent young woman, and you can be key to find them.”

The security guard looked increasingly distressed and then broke into crying.

“I didn't mean this to happen!” Derrick cried into his hand, his breathing raged with sobs.

“What didn't you mean to happen? What did you do, Derrick?” Ashlyn gently patted his shoulder, empathetic.

“I'm a good person,” Derrick rubbed tears off his face with his hand, and looked at Ashlyn with reddened, glassy eyes. “I've got three children, and my wife is a badly paid teacher, and I don't make much either,” he said taking a deep breath to calm himself. “So I took double shift here, and I work seventeen hours straight. Seventeen. I come here at six every day, and I leave at eleven, which is when I saw Lula, but I didn't really see her fall, I saw her already dead. My back suffers a lot so sometimes, when no one is looking and the pain is unbearable I... I take a few quick laps in the swimming pool. I left to do that ten minutes to eleven, and five minutes past eleven I was back here, leaving. I opened the door, saw Lula on the ground... the killer left in that time, didn't they?” His lip trembled, and silent tears left his eyes. “Oh my God! I let the killer out!”

“They would've killed you too... Derrick, why did you lie and said you had seen her fall?”

“Because police assumed I had to, from here, because of the window! Everyone assumed! I couldn't tell them I was swimming, and when they were so sure she killed herself... I figured it didn't matter anymore.”

“Okay, look...” Ashlyn sighed, trying to think of a plan. “I'll pretend you were in the bathroom, okay? It doesn't affect the investigation and at least, if I end up proving she was killed and police comes after you for lying, you can just say you forgot to mention you had a bathroom emergency. You won't be fired.”

“Thank you, thank you, I'm so sorry, had I known...”

“There was nothing you could have done. This place should have a proper CCTV system. And even if you had seen the killer come in and out, you would've thought it was a friend of Lula's, and not suspected anything. She would still be dead. Now, I need to speak with Mrs Bestigui, is she here?”

“I think so,” Derrick nodded, taking more deep breaths until he was completely calm again. “She's usually in her flat. Husband works a lot.”

Ashlyn nodded, and without a further word, went to the lift to get to the second floor and interview Mrs Bestigui, but when the lift opened, the woman was already there, ready to go.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Suspecting.**

“Hello, Mrs Bestigui. I'm Detective Ashlyn Harris.”

The brunette, who was in her late fifties, or early sixties, and had sad eyes with bags underneath, looked at the younger woman, suspecting of her, looking for a badge.

“Are you the police?”

“No,” Ashlyn replied, “although I was in the Navy Police. I'm now a Private Detective, freelance. John Bristow hired me to confirm his sister committed suicide, so I came over just to have a last conversation with those of you who were here that night, if that'd be possible?”

Mrs Bestigui puffed and shook her head.

“Fine, what do you want to know?”

Ashlyn clenched her jaw remembering snobs were just like that.

“I was wondering if you were in the flat the entire night. If you never went to the pool or something.”

“I was home, watching TV.”

“What did you watch?”

“Uh...” Mrs Bestigui seemed confused for a moment, and then got flustered. “BBC news, why?”

“I know you were interrogated by the police that night. In the photographs, you're wearing a long coat over your pyjama, but your lips look nearly blue,” Ashlyn pointed out. “As if the coat hadn't quite managed to warm you up yet. But also, you're wearing make-up, so I imagine police didn't get you out of bed, and you were still watching TV. What was so interesting that night for you to be watching TV so late?”

“I was waiting for my husband. When police came to my flat, I was watching BBC News.”

“But BBC News isn't at that hour,” Ashlyn pointed out. “Believe me, I'd know.”

“Well,” Mrs Bestigui scowled, nervous. “I guess I confounded it. Could've been a film.”

“So you weren't paying much attention to what you were watching in the telly.”

“I guess not. Why are you treating me like a suspect?”

“I'm sorry, Mrs Bestigui,” Ashlyn apologized, relenting. “I just want to know where you were, exactly, so I can figure out if, without realizing, you might've seen or heard something that could help us. And you know what I think? I think you saw a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were freezing cold, even with a coat on, which tells me you only just put it on,” Ashlyn explained softly, standing in front of the shorter woman, “and that you were outside without it first. Where were you?”

“I had the window opened home.”

“With a snowfall? Come on...”

“I don't have anything else to say to you,” she turned around to leave.

“If you're lying, police can actually imprison you, you know? I'd find a good lawyer in your place.” Ashlyn reached a hand to grab her arm and the woman complained in pain and grabbed her arm. “I'm sorry, I...” Mrs Bestigui turned around, and as she grabbed her own arm lifting her sleeve a little, Ashlyn saw a bruise. “I didn't do that.”

Mrs Bestigui gave her a harsh glance, and ran out of the building. Ashlyn snorted a laugh and shook her head, going towards the lift.

“Key, Derrick?”

Once in Lula's flat, Ashlyn examined the door with gloves on, seeing that it definitely hadn't been forced or manipulated. Lula had to have opened it for sure. She walked inside, imagining Lula was leading her into her flat. She had been expecting her, waiting for her, dressed nicely for her, would she invite her for dinner? Ashlyn stopped at the kitchen, but the fridge had already been disconnected, and everything taken away. Maybe she didn't invite her guest for dinner, or else it would've been obvious for the police. Maybe she planned they went outside. Ashlyn had seen photographs of the flat as police took them that night, and there had been nothing similar to the gift someone would bring to their host's house. No fine wine, chocolates or flowers, unless the killer took them back. Had the killer been so greedy to plan things that good that they took the gift back with them?

Ashlyn walked through the spotless, luxurious loft to the window, and noticed she couldn't hear the street. She examined the glass, seeing it was too thick to hear anything outside from inside and vice-versa. That meant even if the cleaners hadn't been wearing earphones and listening to music, they wouldn't have been able to hear any balcony fights.

Then, Ashlyn's phone buzzed and she pressed it against her ear after checking it was Ali.

“Everything all right, Ali?”

“Yes, I was just reading about Lula, checking interviews and all... and I've found something. In December, she was interviewed for a magazine, and at one point, she says she's afraid of heights. So, she would never get so close to her balcony railing to accidentally fall, and committing suicide in such way would take extra bravery, right?”

“Brilliant. This is looking more and more like she was killed.”

“And there's something else. I went into these blogs of fans and apparently, Lula had a thing with musician Elijah Adams. They dated on and off, but he struggled with drugs. However, they were photographed together, along with the woman who came into the office today, the night she died. Barely hours before.”

“Yes, they partied together, I know.”

“How do...?”

“Doesn't matter. Ali, find Adams, get me an interview with him, and also with Mr Landry. I'll be late at the office today, don't wait for me. Also, do you know where Roland Bestigui is? The film director, Lula's neighbour.”

“Uh, one second...” Ashlyn heard the typing of Ali's fingers on her computer. “Yes, he's working in a film in Pinewood Studios.”

“Fuck, Pinewood's fucking far away... is there any train there?”

“Combinations of Tube, train and bus. Between one or two hours from Denmark Street. And then no one would let you inside; thick security. But if you want to talk to him, I've got a better plan.”

“I'm listening...”

“He's filming in Watford tomorrow, something big, there's a lot of publicity in the fans blogs. My Mum is visiting in town and brought her car over last night, so I could borrow it and drive you to Watford. We could follow him around... until it's the best time to talk.”

“Bloody awesome Krieger, well done. I'll call you later.”

That night, when Ashlyn got back to Denmark, she was exhausted, but looking forward to some fun with Ciara Porter. They had spoken on the phone and she'd pick her up, so she put on one of her best suits, fixed her hair a little into a bun, took her medicine and went downstairs right as Ciara's black car turned around the corner and beeped for her.

“Hello, sexy,” Ciara smiled opening the back door for her. “Come in.”

Ashlyn noticed then that there was a chauffeur.

“Thanks.”

“Kolovas love, you know where to go.”

“You're Kolovas Jones?” Ashlyn asked the driver, sat next to Ciara and putting on her belt.

“Yeah, how do you know me?”

“Told you she's a detective,” Ciara smiled, putting a hand on Ashlyn's thigh. There was a divider half-opened between the front and back seats, so all Ashlyn could see of the driver was his dark beard.

“Derrick Wilson told me about you. Said you were Lula Landry's preferred driver?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she tell you who she was expecting the night she died?”

“Expecting someone? No.”

“Actually,” Ciara intervened, “Lula was very excited that night. She said she was going to give her family what they deserved, she was planning something nice for them, but was very mysterious about it. Not even Elijah, her boyfriend, knew. He insisted she'd tell him, and she said he'd be the first she'd call to tell in the morning, but that someone else had to know first. We had no idea she expected to meet someone that night though.”

“Any idea where can I find Elijah?”

“Oh, honey,” Ciara's hand slid further up to rest just over her underwear. “I'm taking you to him.”

Interviewing Elijah at a pub where everyone was mostly drunk wasn't so easy though. He got angry at Ashlyn for insinuating he could've gotten jealous about Lula's mysterious someone else, and killed her, and then he cried talking about how much he loved Lula and how he wanted to marry her and was heartbroken. He was so obviously high and drunk that Ashlyn had pity and relented, realizing he didn't know anything important, and then Ciara took her to her luxurious flat, informing her she was a model alongside Lula, that it was how they became good friends.

Ciara handed her a glass of Vermouth and sat with her drinking from her own glass and crossing long legs over each other as she nailed her blue eyes on her.

“Your Dad was quite the handsome guy in his youth...” she commented, caressing her face sensually.

“Also a complete jerk,” Ashlyn grumbled. “Did you sleep with Lula?” Ciara snorted a laugh and shook her head.

“She was straighter than a wooden board. She loved Elijah, and she wasn't my type. But we were good friends, look,” she got up for a moment, and came back with a black hoodie, showing her the back of it, where there were some encrusted little shiny pyramids forming the words 'Crazy Sisters'. “Our friend designer Guy Sommé made them for us. Cuckoo had another one.”

“Cuckoo?”

“It's how we called her,” Ciara left the hoodie on the back of one sofa and sat on Ashlyn's good knee, taking another sip of her drink before leaving it on the coffee table and leaning against Ashlyn's chest, one of her fingers slipping between the buttons of her shirt and caressing her abs. “She loved her hoodie. We wore them all the time when we wanted to hide from the paparazzi, they cover one really well. Do you know what happened to hers? I'd like to have it, for personal value...”

“No. She didn't have a will, it'll all go to her mother, and when she dies, to John.” Ashlyn sipped from her drink, putting a hand on Ciara's back.

“Bullshit. Lula wanted to leave everything to her real brother.”

“Real brother?”

“Lula had been looking for her biological family,” Ciara explained, matter-of-factly. “She told me she had a brother who was a soldier, her Dad was dead and her Mum was a filthy addict but... she wanted to find her brother. Never knew if she did.” Ashlyn stared at her in disbelief and shock.

“Did you tell this to the police?”

“What for?” Ciara shrugged. “Cuckoo's still dead, Ash. And if she had found him, he would've come around, right? He didn't because he doesn't know about her, and I figured... it was better that way. Better not have to find out you had a sister who wanted to give you everything right when she's dead.”

“Why did she want to give him everything?”

“Because she hated John, and didn't want him to get anything. She said it'd piss him off, and she was happy with it. John was always bossy, trying to tell her what to do.”

Ashlyn nodded slowly. The alcohol and Ciara's now full hand caressing her abs, having opened her shirt a bit, were doing things to soothe her brain and calm her down and make her stop thinking about the case for a moment.

“Do you think she was killed?”

“I'm pretty sure.”

“Will you find who did it?” Ciara whispered to her ear, eliciting goosebumps across her neck.

“Won't stop until I do.”

“I knew you were one of the good ones,” Ciara's lips pressed against her jaw. “Not like the dickhead of your father.” The hand from her belly came to her face and moved it to kiss her lips hard and sweetly, and Ashlyn's lonely brain was more than opened to the idea.

  
  



	8. Heartbreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,  
> I am updating some stories now, I'll slowly update more and more the next few days. I'm very sorry for the delay, I've just been writing stuff, relaxing, reconnecting with my mother as I didn't live in my hometown since last Autumn, and well, with myself.  
> So first things first, thanks everyone for all your comments and support, always. I think I've responded all comments and also I've been talking with some of you in my Tumblr Jantebellum, which has been really nice so if you've never left a comment or chatted with me in Tumblr come say hi, I don't bite :) also I wanted to invite you all to read this post I wrote https://jantebellum.tumblr.com/post/616297711696822272/my-take-on-ao3-and-fanfics it's a bit long but in it I'm talking about my writing process with fanfics, about my beliefs in fanfiction and about Archive of our Own, so you might find it interesting. And I know you're shy and I'm shy but PLEASE hit me up with any sort of conversation. Now that we're all so isolated, I really want to reach out to all of you, make sure you're all doing okay, bring my support and encouragement to you and hey, it's going to be okay, uh? This is just those dramatic ten chapters I always write but remember, the story always ends okay, even when you think there's no way. And if you feel lonely or anything, I'm here.  
> Much love everyone.  
> J.

**Chapter 8: Heartbreak.**

Three days after meeting Ali, Ashlyn woke up in Ciara Porter's bed, feeling utterly relaxed and released, and as she looked down at the beauty next to her, she realized the model was awake and smiling sleepy at her, tracing patterns over her tattooed arm.

“Good morning gorgeous,” Ciara leaned to kiss her arm.

“You know this cannot happen again, right?”

“Obviously,” Ciara's smile only got bigger. “The pleasure of the ephemeral. We had fun, now go find out who killed my friend.”

“May I use your shower first?”

“And my kitchen. I need for my sailor to be ready for the day,” Ciara gave her a last kiss on the lips, and stood up, leaving the bed.

Ashlyn went straight to the bathroom and showered, realizing not for the first time that her hair was too damaged from the constant bleaching, and was starting to break and fall. She put it back in a bun in an effort to keep it in place, got dressed, and when she went to the kitchen, Ciara had made pancakes and was already dressed for work. Ashlyn checked her Tag Heuer watch, seeing it was still early, and wondered if she'd have time and money for a hairdresser. She was sick of her hair, and it didn't do her any good to keep having it fall around.

“Do you know any super cheap hairdresser?” Ashlyn asked, figuring that as a model who kept her hair at mid-length, almost short, Ciara would know. Her curls were, after all, perfect.

“Are you really thinking of fixing your hair with what's going on?” Ciara asked, not offended, but amused.

“Look, if I want for quite the snobby people to talk to me about your beloved friend, I can't go around looking like a mess. I'm sure you've noticed my hair is damaged and falling, I'd like to chop it off and go take care of the case refreshed and with one thing less to worry. They wouldn't let us look anything but sharp in the Navy, I'll have you know.” Ashlyn commented, munching on her pancake.

Ciara chuckled.

“Look good, feel good, work hard. I personally like your hair, damaged and all, but... I cut my own hair,” Ashlyn looked at her, surprised, and she shrugged. “I never like what hairdressers do, and my mother was, before retirement, a hairdresser. She taught me. I could do yours right now for free, as a 'thanks for doing my friend some justice' present.”

“Really? I'd truly appreciate it, actually.”

“Then eat, and let's keep going.”

Half an hour later, Ciara whistled in admiration as she checked her art work standing behind Ashlyn, who sat in front of a mirror, passing her fingers through her new, short hair. It was barely long enough for her to penetrate with her fingers through it, brushing it back, and it was now mostly dark, with light tips from the remains of dye. On the floor, there was a ton of bleached hair, and now she looked incredible. Even Ashlyn had to chuckle.

“That was incredible Ciara, thank you. Sure you're in the right career?”

“Couldn't do this all day. You look hot though.”

Feeling refreshed and looking much better, Ashlyn marched back towards her office, where Ali would pick her up to go to Watford. The day had turned hot, and Ashlyn enjoyed the feeling of the wind through her short hair, and even though she wasn't egocentric or vain, she couldn't help but look at her reflection in every car, seeing how nice her hair, that, shorter, got curlier, looked. It was as if she had just gotten back from surfing, and it was rebellious but nice and sexy.

Once at her office, Ashlyn did her make-up light and changed into a soft light grey-blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a black cardigan she wore opened and with the sleeves rolled-up as well. She needed to take care of her appearance if she was going to try and get a film director to speak to her, even though she felt Ali would be her biggest asset. When Ali texted she was downstairs, Ashlyn grabbed her shoulder bag and, limping lightly, headed downstairs, seeing an old, battered Land Rover that called her attention.

“Hadn't seen one of these in ages, so cool!” Ashlyn complimented sitting left to Ali, who was driving, and looked around, putting on her sunglasses, that were round and hadn't mirror effect because they were prescription ones. Ali looked at her and was immediately dumbfounded with her glasses, her hair, the shirt whose first buttons were opened, her exposed tattoos and fit arms... she looked so sexy, and Ali couldn't come-up with a better word, which was scary because she was straight. What the hell was wrong with her? “Ali, you all right?” Ashlyn added, her smile disappearing as she worried about her assistant, who hadn't said a word yet and was blushing.

“Uh, yeah, it's just... you got a haircut, fits you.”

“Thanks,” Ashlyn smiled, ruffling her hair. “Ciara has skills, apparently. Did a bloody good job, my hair was falling, you know? With the bleach. I was sick of it. And I'm naturally brunette, although you wouldn't say that for my baby photographs. You look nice as well.”

Nice was an understatement. Ali had decided against her classical skirt and high heels, and instead whore short boots, a colourful, loose dress, and a jacket, and looked incredible. Ashlyn, once again, had to check her ring and keep herself in check.

“So you went with Ciara Porter last night,” Ali tried not to sound accusatory and like she was offended by the idea, already driving North.

“And got a bunch of interesting information. Lula and her boyfriend were very in love, so it seems unlikely that he'd kill her, but...” Ashlyn proceed to tell her everything about the day before, save for the part where she fucked Ciara, and in the end, Ali forgot to be offended.

“So that's it, right?” Ali squealed. “You got it! Lula had to be murdered. And I got you a dinner appointment at a restaurant with Tony Landry, he's paying.”

“Awesome,” Ashlyn nodded, observing her great driving skills, but starting to feel uneasy as they got into more traffic, difficult areas. “And we need to come back to London early. Ciara told me last night that Lula often shopped in this store, Vashti. I'm not very good with dresses, but it'd be cool if you could go in, pretend to be some snob interested in buying, and see if the seller has any gossip for you. It's an exclusive store, the kind where they follow you around advising and all... it's possible they might've had some interesting chat with Lula. Apparently the dress she wore when she died was from Vashti, which leads me to think perhaps it was recently bought, perhaps she told them what it was for, who was she meeting.”

“Right,” Ali nodded. “Perfect. And what are we going to do about Tansy?” she added, eyes fixed on the road. “She's obviously hiding something.”

“Hopefully her husband can help us with that. I think she was outside in the balcony, and if she was then she heard the fight Lula had with her killer before dying, assuming they had one, because if she had vertigo there's no way the killer surprised her while she was leaning over the railing, so it looks more like they fought and the killer pushed her. If Tansy heard, then she's a key witness. And if Lula was murdered I bet my ass the murderer is the dark figure in that video.”

“But the video doesn't show their face.”

“I know... but they're wearing black leather gloves, and contrary to popular belief, they make your hands sweat and transpire, so there could be DNA if we find them. Would you mind working until Saturday? I'll pay it, but I just need an extra day to sort things out... I want to try to catch this killer before you leave so I can give you a proper salary.”

“Oh, thank you,” Ali half-smiled. “I'll happily come on Saturday. I love this job.”

“Really?” Ali nodded.

“Police job is my...”

They had gotten into the highway five minutes before. An enormous tanker had pulled out of the slow lane to overtake a Kia with a Baby On Board sign in its rear window. Ashlyn observed as its gargantuan silver bullet of a body speed up down the road, still wet because it had rained over night, and noted with unspoken approval that Ali slowed down, leaving more braking room.

Ashlyn had gone through this before. The instantaneous shift from calm to calamity. The slowing of time, as her senses sharpened and screamed, her throat got dry, and her skin covered in goosebumps. The tanker was jack-knifing.

She heard herself bellow “BRAKE!” because that was what she had done the last time in an useless attempt to prevent the worst from happening, but Ali was smarter than that, and slammed her foot on the accelerator. The car roared forward. When the lorry hit the damp road on its side and spun, Ashlyn was sure there was no way they could avoid crashing, and she instantly closed her eyes and squeezed Ali's knee until her knuckles went white, so on instinct and so fast that she couldn't help herself. The Kia hit the lorry and flipped over, skidding on its roof towards the side of the road; a Renault and a Mercedes had slammed into each other and were locked together, speeding towards the truck of the tanker—

They were hurtling towards the ditch at the side of the road. Ali missed the overturned Kia by an inch. Ashlyn felt her heart in her throat as everything happened in a matter of seconds, so fast there was barely time to register what was happening, and their Land Cruiser Land Rover hit the rough ground at speed so Ashlyn was sure that they were going to plough into the ditch and maybe overturn – the tail end of the tanker was swinging lethally towards them, but they were travelling so fast that Ali, who was having none of it, missed that by a whisker – a massive jolt, Ashlyn's head hit the roof of the car, and they had swerved back onto the dark, wet, tarmac on the other side of the pile-up, without a scratch.

“Oh fuck...” Ashlyn's hand left Ali's knee and she opened her eyes, feeling like she was breathing for the first time and taking a deep breath while Ali was braking at last, in total control, pulling up on the hard shoulder, with a face white and pale like a paper sheet.

“There was a kid in that Kia,” Ali murmured, and before Ashlyn could react she had gone, slamming the door behind her.

Still trying to calm her breathing and with shaking, sweaty hands, Ashlyn freed herself from her belt and left the car, feeling the countryside spin around her, dizzy and inhaling hard. She heard sirens and saw lights of police and ambulances before her instincts kicked in and she ran to the overturned Kia, where Ali and a stranger were lying on the ground trying to calm down the crying child that was inside.

“Move!” Ashlyn shouted, shaking herself from her shock, and Ali looked surprised, but moved as did the man. Ashlyn hit one firm kick on the car door, that fell, as it was already half broken, and knelt, crawling inside the car before turning around to lie on her back and look at the little boy crying in his car seat, turned around. “Hi sweetie, I'm Ash. I'm going to help, okay?” the best she could, she sat up and touched the boy, making sure he was alright. She had first-aid knowledge, knew how to treat emergency bullet wounds and this was no problem. Once she was hundred percent sure he was okay, she very carefully unbuckled him and held him against her chest, patting his back. “It's okay love, you're all right.”

“Kenneth?” a man bellowed from the driver's seat. “My boy, you okay?”

“I've got him Sir, don't worry! I'm a sailor,” Ashlyn half-lied. “You all right?”

“Yeah, just concussed, I think. Thank you! Can you help me get out?”

“I'm going to take Kenneth outside, and the police is already here with the paramedics to help you, okay?”

“Okay, thank you. Please make sure my son gets help.”

Not without difficulty, because she was so tall, Ashlyn left the vehicle holding the boy, who wasn't more than a toddler, and who was much more calm down, close to her chest. Ali and the stranger observed surprised.

“Is he okay?” Ali asked. “I thought we weren't supposed to touch him...”

“You thought right. I've got emergency medical training, I knew what to do,” Ashlyn added, just as a paramedic came over and she handed over the kid. “He's completely fine.” She panted. “The Dad needs help to get out. Are you OK, Ali? That was some incredible driving.”

She was trembling a little, but smiled at the question.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just scared I was going to see a dead child.”

Ashlyn nodded, still shaken-up herself, and they walked back towards their car.

“Where the fuck did you learn to drive like that?” Ashlyn blurted, her knee aching now.

“When I left uni, I did a few advanced driving courses. It was relaxing.”

Ashlyn snorted a laugh and shook her head, and Ali thought she heard 'bloody astonishing' as Ashlyn went back in the car. They continued their drive North, but after a few minutes, Ashlyn, whose breathing had progressively become more raged, earning frequent glances of concern from Ali, got incredibly worse in a matter of seconds, and very suddenly she couldn't breathe. Ali once again turned into an area where she could stop the car calmly, and Ashlyn jumped out of her seat and rushed away, marching on until she stopped in the middle of the large grass countryside area. Ali jogged to her.

“Ashlyn, what's wrong?”

Not receiving an answer and seeing Ashlyn's head bow and her hands press on her hips, she walked around to face her, and saw her eyes firmly closed, an expression of struggle as she took deep breaths. Ali noticed then that a tear was making its way silently down her cheek.

“I'm sorry,” Ashlyn murmured, opening her eyes and looking at Ali with glassy eyes and a serious expression. She rubbed her face with one hand and closed her eyes again, throwing her head back as she let out a deep breath, calming down.

“It's okay, we can stay here for a while.”

This was inappropriate, Ashlyn told herself. This was her employee, her assistant... she was embarrassing herself. So she convinced Ali to return to the car, taking an anxiolytic from a tiny medicine box she kept in her pocket the minute Ali wasn't looking, and buckled her belt while holding the pill under her tongue to have it act faster. She closed her eyes, hugged herself, and pressed her forehead against the window, while Ali continued driving.

She was still tense, but keep breathing deeply until they reached Watford and, seeing it was early, Ali suggested they found somewhere to have a second breakfast, since they had both woken-up so early and were already hungry. Ashlyn was thankful for the opportunity of getting out of the car, and they strolled together under the beaming sun into a café inside a huge park, finding a small round table by a tree. Ali asked for tea and eggs, and Ashlyn for a pint and some eggs as well.

They were in silence for a bit, Ashlyn knowing she owed her employee an explanation, and Ali knowing her boss needed some time and space, but once half a pint had been downed down and the eggs had vanished from her plate, Ashlyn cleared her throat.

“I was thirteen,” Ashlyn said, and Ali looked up at her. Ashlyn was biting her inferior lip and playing with a leather bracelet in her wrist that Ali, observant as she was, had never noticed she had. She imagined it was usually hidden by her big watch. “It was Christmas Day, and early morning we were trying to make it to my grandparents' house in St. Mawes. Curtis was working in Truro at the time, so we had been living there, but wanted to open the presents with my grandparents, like every year. Nana would make hot chocolate and it was when we had the most fun, my big brother and I. They lived in this really nice house, and it was one of the odd years in which it had snowed in Cornwall, so the roads were unusually difficult and, in St. Mawes, it's all big hills and curves... not for amateur drivers. Curtis had drunk so my mother substituted him, and she wasn't as experienced with Cornish roads. There was an accident.”

“Oh...” Ali murmured before she could stop herself. Ashlyn nodded, and sighed.

“I don't remember much... I hit my head against the window and blacked-out. But when I woke up in the hospital, my Nana was holding my hand, and my Grandpa was shouting at his son, my father Curtis, to shut it, because he was storming on my Mum and she was... she couldn't stop crying, and a nurse was holding her, and a doctor was trying to kick Curtis out, and they were calling security...” she snorted. “It was a fucking spectacle. But I noticed Curtis's t-shirt was covered in blood and he had an arm in a cast and a gauze on his forehead, and my Mum was in a hospital gown in a wheelchair... apparently I had concussed big time and missed hours and hours. So I remembered my brother, and when I asked about him...” she shrugged. “What's crazy is that I do remember the moments before the accident. I remember laughing with my brother about something, don't even know what, and my brother shouting he had a headache and we were being too loud by laughing. My brother was arguing with him, he was always so protective of me... but something happened with his belt, it was an old second-hand cheap car...” Ali frowned, and felt so sad it was a real struggle not to cry right then. “I was thirteen at my brother's funeral, two days after Christmas,” Ashlyn proceeded softly. “He was two months from sixteen, already planning on studying medicine and going on to save lives. Always saying one day he'd be a hero and he'd make his life count, saying he'd buy Mum a huge house and us three could leave Curtis and live together, happy... now they're both gone and Curtis got a bunch of years in prison, and when he comes out, I'll still pretend he's dead too, because I'm not sure I won't kill him if I see him. And I don't own a car, I don't do cars... I got in the Navy thinking I'd barely have to be in cars, and when I did need them, I was always on anxiolytics and driving myself because it was easier. But I can't drive because I need a knee surgery that will take me out of work for much longer than I can afford without being homeless, and it hurts to hit the pedal for long, and that's why I limp. So I'm sorry I freaked-out and I'm sorry I live in my office, and I'm a mess, and this isn't the kind of professional environment you should be dealing with, I promise I—,”

“Cut it,” Ashlyn looked up and saw Ali had sad eyes but a small, soft smile. “It's true you're the messiest boss I've ever had, but not the messiest person I've ever met, and working for you is far more fun and gratifying than any other job I've had. And if there was another option, I'd stay. But whatever happens, I'm not going to sit there and pretend my boss doesn't get to have problems when we all do. You think I didn't Google you before? I didn't dare to read... I felt bad for Googling, to be honest. But I did get to read your father was a football player, a goalkeeper, and that he beat your mother up, so you stabbed him and got him put away super young. And I read your Grandpa was a World War II hero, which impressed me quite a bit.” Ashlyn nodded.

“My Mum's Dad, yeah... he died in the World War.” Ali nodded. “You didn't mention you Googled.”

“I felt bad about it, because I realized it was private. I didn't know about your brother, and I'm glad. I think just because your father is famous, it doesn't mean people should have an inherent right to know about your life, and even if they read, they wouldn't know the hell that's like. None of them lost a good friend, and as much as you say, I know Charlie was more special than you'll admit, as a child, none of them saw their violent father mistreat their mother in their faces even after losing a child, none of them stabbed their own father because it was what it took to keep the little family that was left safe, and none of them had a different bedroom every six months, or served in the Navy. And until someone does all of that, they don't have the right to judge, and neither do I. You don't owe me any explanations, Ashlyn. I respect you and I admire you, and that doesn't change just because you had it rough, okay? All I do want to know is how and when I can help you, because I hope we'll stay friends after I no longer work for you, and without judgement, I want to help if I can.”

Ashlyn smiled small and nodded, truly thankful.

“Charlie was the only friend I've ever had in class, aside from Whitney. Any other friend of mine came with work and stuff,” Ashlyn explained. “And he was certainly my only friend in London. And... he wasn't judgemental. I was poor like you wouldn't believe. My father spent all he made in alcohol and drugs, barely gave my mother money for food and all, and often we went to social canteens and all... food stamps. I knew the Bristows well because Charlie was so loving to me, he always insisted I came over for afternoon snacks because he knew I didn't get to eat much during the day. And his mother, that's now dying, treated me like I was one more adopted child, you know? I knew Charlie well, I always suspected he didn't just have an accident... I don't know what it was, but he wasn't stupid, he would never do something that risky just for a thrill. He was always careful. But I couldn't do anything about it, just keep going to where it happened and keep trying to figure out if he could ever really do something so reckless, I'd visit Lady Bristow... then my parents decided we should move somewhere else once more, and I never saw the Bristows again and didn't have interest on friendship anymore. My best friend was in Cornwall miles away, the only other I had got squashed horribly... Fuck friendship, you know? I had my brother, and then not even. And now I've got the chance of bringing just a little bit of justice to Lady Bristow before she dies. Afterwards, my agency can sink if it wants. I've lost my own fiancée, I'm still cancelling wedding shit, I have not one place to fall dead, but Lula cannot go down like her brother, with unsolved enigmas and contradictions. I need to find out what happened to her, Ali. I owe it to Charlie. If he was alive... he would've been one hell of a good brother to her, he'd keep her safe. And he'd be begging me on his knees to punish whoever took her away.”

Ali blinked tears away, and clenched her jaw, nodding.

“We will figure it out. We fucking will.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's anything in particular you'd like to read about, I always accept suggestions and petitions, by the way. I'm always writing, and ideas are always welcomed.


	9. Watford

**Chapter 9: Watford.**

“Ashlyn, wake-up.”

Ashlyn's hazel eyes popped open and she saw Ali point through the car window, ahead. They had been sitting in the car for hours, trying to get Mr Bestigui alone, watching him and waiting until he went alone somewhere far. Now it seemed like they had finally finished shooting and Mr Bestigui had gotten in his car, parked just within their observing distance.

“Follow him,” Ashlyn said.

They followed the car, Ashlyn indicating Ali the right pace, sometimes directing her to other streets to lose him momentarily so he wouldn't suspect, sometimes letting other cars between them, until they saw in the far distance that Mr Bestigui parked, walked to a hotel door where a young, sexy-looking lady waited, and without preamble, kissed her hard on the lips.

“Look at that,” Ali shook her head in disapproval.

“Those wives are half my clientèle. I'm not proud,” she added at Ali's harsh look, and lifted her camera to take multiple photographs of the two snogging. The man looked around and took the girl's hand before walking inside the hotel together.

“What do we do?” Ali asked. “We can't let him cheat like that...”

“We wait. We can never intervene on things unless a life's at risk, Ali,” Ashlyn told her gently, getting comfortable with a pack of biscuits they had bought. “We're detectives. We observe.”

“I'm an assistant.”

“You're a junior detective. I don't take assistants on these trips, even if they own a fucking Lexus.”

“But you've always taken me.”

“Because from the start you were excited about this job, you picked-up on my organization ways without a big explanation, and you showed loyalty. And I reward those things.”

Ali smiled warmly at her and nodded, looking again through the window.

“I have a big brother too,” Ali said suddenly. Ashlyn raised an eyebrow. “I figured, it's not uncomfortable oversharing if I do it too.” Ashlyn chuckled, snorting a laugh. “His name is Kyle. What's yours?”

“CRH,” Ashlyn replied, in reference to the password Ali typed every day. Ali looked surprised and Ashlyn nodded. “Christopher Ryan Harris. February 24th was his birthday. 24 was also my number when I played football in my youth.”

“I also played football. 11.”

“Really? What position.”

“Defender, right back. Goalkeeper?”

“What gave me away?” Ali giggled. “Well, I tried forward with Chris, trying not to be like the man I hated... but he was fast as a lighting and I'm slow runner. I've got big hands though, and didn't care about bruises, so... Chris called me his badass little sidekick.”

“How cute. Kyle was a left back, so we just had the defence in the blood. We played until university. You?”

“Until Curtis went to prison,” Ashlyn replied simply. “We didn't have to pay because they considered it an honour to have Curtis Harris' children. When he went to prison, I lost all interest. Just wanted to be home for my mother, she had depression.”

“Poor thing,” Ali frowned sadly.

“It doesn't work if every time you overshare, I overshare twice as much. You've got to tell more, you owe me like three billion things,” Ashlyn joked, amused, and Ali smiled warmly at her. Ashlyn found she loved to see her smile.

“Okay... well, my parents are divorced, broke-up in my teens. My Dad is wonderful though, he's a football coach in Ripon. Mum is a P.E., teacher, so I really had no choice with sports, was playing since I knew how to walk. They're both quite amazing parents, if I'm honest. Still, somehow, Kyle fell off the wagon and when I was nineteen he vanished for a couple years, no one knew what had happened, where he was, if he lived. Turns out he had dropped University and ran off to live as a squatter and get high for a living. He tried everything. When we finally got him back, after I was in the hospital for something... he felt so horrible he wasn't there for me, when we were always best friends, and so guilty, he's been trying to make-up for it since. Now he lives in Masham with Mum, but he's been meaning to come to London, he said if I approve the city he'll join me here and I can't wait. He's a hairdresser by the way, he'd do you a nice job any day, if you're not judgemental for his past.”

“Good,” Ashlyn snorted. “Ali, how hypocritical would it be of me to judge when I was an addict myself.”

“Were you?”

“Again, now you owe me more.” Ali giggled.

“You're doing it on purpose.” Ashlyn half smiled.

“Maybe...”

“Okay, my parents' names are Kenneth and Debra, but we call her Deb-Deb or just Deb.”

“The boy's name was Kenneth. In the road before.”

“Really? Odd,” Ali shrugged. “Nice name though. And they're both remarried and Dad has step-children now, two teenage boys, they're great. And uh... my favourite colour is purple, I'm nicknamed the Princess Warrior at home...”

“Why?”

“Because I'm very princess-like and my surname means warrior in German.”

“Coolest fucking thing.”

“Thanks! I actually lived in Frankfurt. I was here a year, after dropping uni, and then my boyfriend was still stuck in uni, so I decided instead of missing him, I'd go get my own adventure, had nothing better to do. Saw the advanced driving courses in Frankfurt in an add, and just went there, worked at a book-store for a year, learned fluent German and independence.”

“You're joking, no way...”

“Yes way... you're not the only badass woman in this car, Ms Harris. Can I ask you something, though?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you keep your surname, if it's from someone you hate?”

“Because,” Ashlyn looked at the hotel, checking Bestigui was still inside, “my only living grandparents, the ones who were always like parents to me, are Harris. And I'm proud to be their grandchild. And I think that if you get attacked in a street, you should make an effort to build great memories in that street afterwards in order to heal, and if a Harris is known for being a dickhead, another should be known for being the best person she could be. That way there's some balance... and it's shown that bad things don't have to follow you your whole life.”

Ali nodded slowly, contemplating her for a moment. Her words touched deeper in Ali than Ashlyn might know, and as she looked back to the hotel, she felt, not for the first time, that she was sitting next to a close friend. Then the woman who had gone into the hotel with Bestigui came out of the hotel and Ashlyn quietly left the car, putting the phone in her ear and pretending to be talking while following the woman around the corner. Ali followed carefully in the car and watched as Ashlyn stopped the lady before parking and joining her with a quick jog.

“I work for the London police, okay?” Ashlyn was saying. “You've done nothing wrong, but we suspect Mr Bestigui might. How long have you been with him?”

The girl didn't look very smart, and she quickly became fearful.

“Just a year or so... we meet every now and then, it's just sex, I sweat there's nothing!”

“Do you know Mr Bestigui is a married man?”

“Yes, but... he doesn't love her. He's only with her because her family has money, and even if they were in love... I don't love him, I don't care. He pays me fucking well, you know? I need the money.”

Ashlyn noticed something then and softly grabbed her chin, tilting her head a little to see bruising in her neck.

“Does he like it hard? That's why you let him grab your neck?”

“It's consented,” the girl said, eyes glassy in fear. “I'm happy with our deal.”

“All right. Is he always that aggressive?”

“He just likes it rough, he likes to dominate. Nothing more.”

“Okay. Go.”

Ashlyn moved aside and let her go. When Ali looked confused, Ashlyn shook her head.

“Tansy had bruises. I think she wasn't watching the telly when Lula died. I think he hit her before he went to work, and locked her in the balcony, that's why she looked so cold in the photographs.”

“We're going to need further evidence.”

“Let's get him, he can't have gone too far.”

The two walked into the hotel and went to the reception.

“Excuse me,” Ashlyn said, pulling out what looked like his Navy Police ID. “Sergeant Ashlyn Harris, from Royal Navy Police's Special Investigations Branch. I'm investigating this man,” she searched for a photograph in her phone, and showed Bestigui to the receptionist. “I saw him come in here.”

“Yeah...” the woman frowned. “Is he a criminal.”

“Maybe. Can we go visit him?”

“He's still there, room 302. Third floor.”

“Thank you.”

“Where did you get that from?” Ali whispered in the lift.

“It's a photocopy of the real one that I had to return. Don't worry, I only use it for emergencies.”

They walked into the third floor and searched for room 302, which was pretty close to the lift, right around the corner into a red-carpeted corridor. Ashlyn raised a strong fist and knocked with the back of her knuckles.

“Mr Bestigui?!” Ashlyn shouted inside. “Navy Police, open up!”

They heard some steps and the door opened, showing a white-haired man with a scowl framing her glasses, wearing a shirt and trousers, but barefoot.

“Navy Police?” he inquired. “What for?”

“Actually, I'm Detective Ashlyn Harris, and this is my assistant Ali, we'll have a word with you,” Ashlyn pushed the door open despite Bestigui's grumbling and complaining and both women went inside, with Ali closing after her.

“How you dare? Get out before I call the police!”

“I don't know how that would work out Mr Bestigui, since I work for the police,” Ashlyn lied calmly, “besides, I have evidence of your cheating on your very rich wife, how would a divorce feel, uh? You'd lose everything.”

“Are you threatening me?” he grumbled with a deep voice, giving Ashlyn such a glare that Ali, who stood behind her, got goosebumps. But Ashlyn was visibly accustomed to hostility.

“Glad it's clear!” Ashlyn smiled. “Meanwhile, I've got nothing to lose, so let's talk, shall we? And maybe then I won't tell my partner waiting in the car downstairs to send the evidence straight to your wife. Ali, record.”

Ali pulled a recorder from her phone and pressed play.

“What do you want?” Mr Bestigui grumbled sternly.

“Identify yourself and then tell me exactly what you were doing the night Lula Landry died.”

“I'm Francis Bestigui. At half-past eight I got a call from my script writer, who had a big consult, emergency. He lives close to my flat so at nine I was leaving, once I was ready, and I was back home at the same time police was. I heard what happened from Derrick Wilson, police wanted to ask me some questions and I told them I hadn't been home, but my wife was and maybe she could say something. So I went back to my flat to tell my wife, got her out of bed, put a coat on her and we went back downstairs to speak with the police.” He murmured with an unfriendly, hostile expression.

“Your wife was in bed? Asleep?” Ashlyn asked.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Funny. She said she was watching TV.”

“My wife takes sleeping pills, she must've been confused.”

“Why did your wife have bruises in her arms?” Bestigui nailed his dark eyes on hers for a moment and then straightened.

“No idea.”

“Really? 'Cause your lover says you like it rough. She had bruises too.”

“That fucking bit-,”

“So you admit it,” Ali interrupted. “You're into the whole dom-sub thing, like to grab your women tight? Hurt them, even?”

“I was a little harsh on my wife, she loved it.”

“Did she also love being locked in the balcony for two hours?” Ashlyn asked coldly. Mr Bestigui fixed his eyes on her, and looked like he might strangle her, but Ashlyn didn't hesitate. “I checked Lula's balcony, and Derrick told me everyone has the same balcony doors. It opens and closes from inside, but can be opened from outside if no one locks it inside. It's also soundproof, which is why your wife could say she hadn't heard anything, except that she did. You two fought, you hurt her and locked her in the balcony as a punishment, which is why her lips were purple going on blue and she looked so distressed in the photographs of her testifying to the police, and why both of you have different versions of what she was doing, because you agreed on not saying what had truly happened, but not on which lie to tell. You went upstairs to grab her because without you she couldn't leave the balcony, while if she had truly been asleep or watching TV, Derrick Wilson could've phoned her from his desk. Besides, if she was asleep or watching TV it wouldn't make sense for you to go get her, when the flats are soundproof and she wouldn't have heard a thing. But you didn't realize of that until you were already in your flat, didn't you? So you decided to take her, tell her to lie and pretend you hadn't realized a woman who was sleeping in a soundproof flat is of no interest as a witness. Are you going to tell me the truth now, Mr Bestigui, or do I have to call my friends in the press and send them some very nice photographs of you making out with a whore?”

Ali cheered internally and made a conscious effort not to smile as Mr Bestigui's fists clenched and unclenched, just like his jaw, looking like a fish about to blow-up, until he finally said the truth.

“Tansy and I had a fight,” Mr Bestigui confessed. “And you're right. Afterwards, I locked her in the balcony as a punishment, and when I went to get her she was screaming someone had thrown Lula from the balcony upstairs. That she had heard a fight.”

“She said she heard two people fight?” Ali asked.

“A man and Lula,” Mr Bestigui confirmed. “She didn't recognize his voice, but she was bloody distressed and was going to ruin my life saying I had locked her two hours in the balcony during a snowfall, so I convinced her to shut up and make something up. My wife was medicated, I supposed she had heard wrong or something, or else police would've caught the killer, but she was only imagining it, or making it up to ruin me.”

“Except she wasn't, Mr Bestigui. She was saying the truth.”

Back in the car, Ashlyn hurried to call DI Wardle of the Metropolitan Police while Ali drove as quickly as it was safely possible back to London. Ashlyn told him what she had found out, pressuring him to go get a new testimony from Tansy Bestigui. Even though it took some convincing, eventually Wardle agreed, not without reprimanding her from her treatment of Mr Bestigui.

“Will that evidence be enough?” Ali asked.

“No, we've only proved she was killed, now we have to find out who did it. Means and opportunity, Ali,” Ashlyn explained. “The Bestiguis weren't able to do so. There are far too many witnesses that Mr Bestigui was away, and his wife was locked in the balcony, there's no way. Besides, it had to be someone strong enough to throw an adult woman over the railing. Derrick Wilson had means and opportunity, but I really doubt he did it, and besides, he had nothing to win from it and too much to lose, not to mention I believe him. Over time, you learn to recognize honesty, 'cause it's very rare. That leaves us with Lula's family, Ciara Porter, Elijah Adams, Guy Sommé and Kolovas Jones.”

“Kolovas Jones was working, and his car would've been seen. Guy Sommé is a fashion designer, and for what I heard they were good friends, and he lives in the opposite corner of London. Wouldn't make sense. Elijah was very in love, didn't you say?”

“What really rules Elijah and Ciara out is that they both came from a party, were fucking drunk and high, no way they could've committed a crime like that.”

“So it was Lula's own family?”

“John Bristow and Tony Landry both had alibis. For what Abby said, John was at the office, which Tony confirmed, so they're each other's alibis. Lady Bristow is dying. I think our murderer has a name we don't know yet.”

“What if Lula found her biological family? What if they wanted her money?”

“You've read my mind, Ali. Well done. Let's go to Vashti.”

  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://jantebellum.tumblr.com/post/616566533139873792/thank-you


	10. It's all in the skin

**Chapter 10: It's all in the skin.**

Ashlyn wasn't impressed easily, but right then, as she observed Ali gracefully make a Londoner accent and pretend to be rich as hell, laughing and making gossip conversation with Vashti's ladies, she had to admit she was thoroughly astonished. Ali was now trying the most expensive long coat Ashlyn had ever seen in her life, worth way more than what Ashlyn made in a year, all of this while commenting it seemed too cheap for her sister's taste and telling the employees how her sister had a difficult taste, which was why Alice, her lovely sister-in-law, had asked for her help to find her a birthday present.

“I heard Lula Landry shopped here, didn't she?” Ali was saying with a grin and a posh accent, posing for Ashlyn, who was trying very hard not to get horny because she looked fucking gorgeous with anything she tried on. Ali had pulled her inner queen self and was behaving so naturally like royalty, Ashlyn was inclined to call her 'your Majesty'. “My sister's gonna flip! A present from the same store as Lula Landry, woah! Alice's going to owe me big for this.” She winked at Ashlyn, who did her best not to blush as the employees laughed. “She only wears suits, my sister-in-law... no idea about pretty dresses like this.”

“Well your sister has a lot of Lula's taste,” one of the employees, a young blonde, was saying as she walked with Ali back inside the curtain and helped her out of the dress and into another. “Lula tried this same dress the morning of the day she died.”

“Oh my God! Unbelievable!” Ashlyn heard Ali squeal. “What did she buy that day in the end?”

“This unique dress, red, incredibly expensive and gorgeous,” the employee answered. “Short over the knees, but discreet. She said she was meeting her brother and wanted to look nice for him, that she had a surprise and wanted the whole night to be everything he ever dreamed of. She spoke so fondly of him, it warmed my heart!”

“The poor Lula, got a horrible end...” the other employee lamented, passing some heels through the curtain.

The curtain opened and Ali appeared with a black dress that made Ashlyn's heart accelerate. The brunette was beaming.

“How do I look?”

“You look...” Ashlyn gulped. “Your sister would love that dress.”

“Mmm...” Ali looked at herself in the mirror and pursed her lips. “Let me try on the red one. She loves red.”

Ali went back into the curtain and one of the workers passed inside a draped crimson Prabal Gurung gown, long to the floor with the skirt opening in one side of the gown to reveal a leg it wanted, as otherwise the gown itself had enough material to hide the opening like a closed curtain.

Ashlyn waited for a few minutes, and when the curtain opened again, her throat went dry and she got speechless. There was Ali, turning around and watching herself in the mirror, looking like a little child happy in her new dress, admiring herself, and something in her eyes told Ashlyn that this time, her content was very sincere.

“What do you think?” Ali asked, turning around again and looking unexpectedly shy.

“I think the dress gets better on you,” Ashlyn managed to say, feeling her cheeks blush.

“Aw, that's sweet,” the employee grinned.

“We'll take that one,” Ashlyn said, clearing her throat. “Pack it up for me, please, and I'll send someone to get it tomorrow.”

“That was fun,” Ali said as they left the store ten minutes later. “So sad it was all pretend. God, if I could afford something like that...” she whistled. “Gorgeous.”

“You don't need a dress to be pretty, Ali,” Ashlyn said before she could stop herself. “I mean, you got a fiancé, right? He loved you before you had expensive dresses.”

Ali smiled sweetly and nodded.

“You're right!”

As they sat down for lunch in a pub, they quickly commented the discovery that the dress Lula had, in fact, died with, had been bought the morning of her last day in order to look nice for her brother. They didn't know if it was her adoptive brother or the biological one, but it became clear they'd have to find the biological one. Ashlyn would meet with Tony Landry that night for dinner, and discuss what Lady Bristow had told them about Tony disapproving the adoption of Lula years before. Meanwhile, Ali would try to get them to meet with Guy Sommé.

Ashlyn's phone buzzed and she checked it was a text from Lisbeth while eating her bacon roll.

' **Come back home, Ashy, I miss you** ' rolling eyes, Ashlyn erased the text.

“So tell me about your boyfriend,” Ashlyn said casually. “Does he like your new job?”

“Eric?” Ali snorted a laugh, shaking her head while sipping from her water to gulp down her food. Ashlyn had observed she didn't usually drink alcohol during working hours. “He's conflicted. He wants us to have a family and plans for me to stay home and take care of our children, but at the same time he wants me to be successful professionally and make a ton of money. I think he dreams I get a job from home.” She joked with a chuckle. Ashlyn got the thought that he was a brat. “But he's very sweet, very caring, and I love him. I know he only wants what he thinks it's best for me.”

“You're good at this job,” Ashlyn commented casually. “You should get an application in the police, Ali. Nice salary, and you'd be solving murders all the time.”

“They don't hire assistants.”

“I'd put a nice word for you.”

“Would you?” Ali looked excitedly at Ashlyn, who nodded.

“Of course I would. So why the nickname Ali? I thought all Alexandras went with Alex.”

“Oh, blame it on my brother,” Ali laughed, eating. “He's only a year and eleven days older than me, so when I was born, he could hardly pronounce my name. He had a problem with the 'x' back then,” she said amused. Ashlyn smiled softly, loving the way her eyes lightened-up when talking about her brother. “So Alex and Alexandra were problematic, and my Mum decided to try with Ali, and that stuck. Funnily enough, now everyone else calls me Ali but my family, that always calls me Alex or Alexandra. They only use Ali to talk about me to third parties. And fun fact, my brother's gay too.”

“Oh really?” Ashlyn cursed inside. So there was already a gay child, making the chances of Ali ever coming to the other side even lower. Wait, but why would she want Ali to do that?

“Yeah, my Mum outed him. She was offended he told everyone but her,” Ali chuckled.

“So it wasn't a problem for your parents?” Ashlyn looked honestly surprised.

“Not at all! Mum hugged him and told him all she wanted was for him to be happy, and that she hoped he'd find a nice gentleman to love and to be loved by. Why, your parents had problems with you?”

“Sure,” Ashlyn shrugged. “Mine and most parents of gay children, I mean, your mother sure is a jewel of a person,” she was completely astonished, and even forgot her food for a moment. “My brother didn't care. My grandparents didn't care. But when I rejected dresses at a young age and started saying girls were prettier than boys, Mum decided against an only girls school so I was more surrounded by boys, and when my father caught me kissing a girl for the first time, he b... he got furious,” she corrected herself. “Mum came to accept it over time, though. And Curtis was in prison, so he can fuck himself.”

“Wise words. So, how come you have such good knowledge of emergency medicine?” Ali asked full of curiosity.

“When I went into the Navy, I hoped to become a Navy doctor. Studied for it and all, but ultimately, Navy Police called my attention and I changed path. Still, I got some training for combat wounds, because I was in Iraq and all... didn't make much use of it, though.”

“Did you like it in the Navy?”

“I loved it. Travelling constantly was all my childhood taught me, and I had a good family there. Comrades who wouldn't leave me to sink, literally. People who cared, who had my back, the ocean... I'm a big beach girl. I loved getting up every day in my ship and smelling the salt,” Ashlyn grinned at the memory, looking dreamy. “And all our water competitions. Beach boxing, surfing, swimming... we were so competitive, we'd compete about anything in our free time.”

Ali smiled softly at him, loving the excitement in her eyes.

“Then why did you leave it?”

“I was forced to,” Ashlyn explained. She sighed and half shrugged, leaning forward and taking a sip of her beer. “It happened eighteen months ago. I was in a ship in the Persian Gulf, going to Iraq to investigate a Killed in Combat. Somehow, terrorists managed to put a bomb in our ship.”

“Fuck...” Ali frowned, chastising herself internally for bringing up such harsh topics when what she wanted was to see Ashlyn smile again.

“The ship was sinking fast. It was the middle of the night, pitch black and...” Ashlyn shook her head. “I hurt my knee getting out of a sinking ship, and then the PTSD was too much. I haven't set a foot in a ship or the ocean since. The Navy wanted me and were willing to sort something out, away from ships... but I didn't want desk jobs, and my Uncle James, who was in the Navy Police back in the day, told me maybe it was time to get out. I hadn't become a sailor fully, mentally... I mean... when you're there too long, you lose yourself. You lose part of your humanity, become a robot... my Uncle never quite dehumanized because he knew when to go, and I followed his same route. Abby was my boss in the Navy, but she retired a little before I left, she married and wanted to be home.”

Ali nodded in understanding.

“I guess some things are meant to come just to give you what you need in the moment, a box full of lessons, and go before they kill you,” Ali commented philosophically. Ashlyn thought of Navy and Lisbeth and nodded.

“Couldn't have said it any better.”

They returned to the office for a couple hours before Ali had to go home. While in the office, Ashlyn was checking the CCTV video again while Ali investigated in her computer in the adjacent room, both sipping from tea Ali had made, when then Ali squealed and, a moment later, Ashlyn's door swung open and Ali ran inside.

“What?” Ashlyn sat up, half asleep against her hand on her desk.

“Flowers!” Ali said, and quickly went to Ashlyn's cabinet and pulled the folder with the crime scene photographs, throwing it on Ashlyn's desk and showing her a photograph of a flower bouquet thrown over Lula's coffee table, on top of Lula's purse.

“So Lula bought flowers when she died.”

“Except she didn't,” Ashlyn looked up at Ali, confused. “I've been swimming in the fans forums, and in one of them they're commenting an old interview of Lula, from when she first got into modelling. In the interview, she gets asked whether she's the kind of girls who enjoy flowers or something else, and she replied that she disliked flowers being ripped from their place, because they died in your living room. Therefore, she'd never buy them. Furthermore, if anyone had sent them, Derrick would've had to let them inside, and he's said time and time again no one except the cleaners came in that day, but the flowers don't look like they've been there more than a few hours, don't they?”

“Which means the killer would've had to bring them over,” Ashlyn's eyes widened. “The killer wasn't who Lula was waiting for, but they knew Lula was waiting for someone, so they used the flowers to cover their face when Lula looked through the pep hole, so she'd think the killer was her guest and open-up.”

“Which means the killer was close enough to her to know that much.”

“Wait a second...” Ashlyn felt her heart drumming in excitement. “One of the times I spoke with Derrick, he told me he left white flowers on the second floor just hours before Lula died. Flowers like these. They were a welcome gift for the DJ that was coming.”

“Oh my God, the killer was in the second floor, and because the cleaners use earphones with music, they never heard!” Ali realized excitedly.

“That's how the killer went in and out, Ali!” Ashlyn stood up in excitement. “Came in when Derrick was upstairs, with their own key that we'll figure out how they got it. They might've stolen it from Lady Bristow, who had one and was too sick to have noticed. They noticed that Lula would not open if it was them, perhaps because it was someone she didn't like. But then, they saw the second floor flat open, maybe they waited in the stairs while Derrick came in and out, and saw the flowers and decided to use those flowers. And as she went inside Lula's flat, they just dropped them wherever... Lula never put them away because she died afterwards.”

“And police didn't look in the second floor, and wouldn't suspect of the flowers because girls have flowers, am I right?” Ali chuckled. “And then the killer left while Derrick was in the pool. But if the killer murdered Lula in a planned way, hence not leaving evidence very obviously and not being caught, how did they know Derrick wouldn't be in his desk? How did they know about the flowers?”

Ashlyn dropped back on her chair, thoughtful, looking serious, until she managed to reason it.

“Because the killer was close to Lula. Close enough to know where to find a key but also not to use it to get into the flat because they knew Lula was inside, close enough to know Lula received an identical bouquet when she went into the attic six months before, close enough to know DJ Mack was coming into the flat below, close enough to know Lula was waiting for somebody that night. We've missed something, Ali. We have to have heard the killer's name already.”

  
  



	11. This poison like blood, flowing between us

**Chapter 11: This poison like blood, flowing between us.**

For as long as Ali had been happily thrilled with her new job, and coming into the office for the fifth consecutive morning on a sunny Friday, Ali's happiness was stained by her recent growth of arguments at home with her fiancé, who didn't like her coming late, accused her of having her mother come over to then not do anything with her -when Deb had her own friends in London that she had been spending time with too- and then was angry Ali wouldn't even feed him when he came late from what he called 'a real job'. Their arguments occurred every night, and as Deb drove Ali to work that morning before heading back home in the North, Deb interrogated her about the last one, that she had heard.

“It'll pass, honey,” Debra reassured her daughter lovingly, walking with her out of the car, as she wanted to be introduced to Ashlyn and see how the office was, even when it was her one-before-last day. “You just talk things out calmly with Eric tonight, okay? Demand his support. When he sees you get serious, he'll understand this is important for you.”

“He just... he acts as if I'm not his Ali anymore, because I suddenly like police work. Well, I've wanted to be a cop since I was a child, and now Ashlyn is educating me, teaching me all she knows, telling me she'll put up a nice word about me to the police, recommending I continue in this, seeing skills in me... why can't he understand?”

“Men are a bit slow sometimes, love,” Debbie half smiled and wrapped an arm around her, kissing her temple, before they walked upstairs. Ali checked her watch, seeing it was ridiculously early and hoping Ashlyn wasn't still asleep in her office, since she probably arrived late from her dinner the night before with Mr Bestigui.

But as they walked into the building and started jogging upstairs, both fit and athletic, Ali had deja vu hearing familiar shouting upstairs, undoubtedly Ashlyn and her ex-fiancée, Lisbeth, fighting again. But this time, Ali felt inexplicably protective of Ashlyn, and jogged faster upstairs.

“Hurry up, Mum, Ashlyn has some trouble.”

“Who's that? Should we call the police?”

“No, it's romance trouble. Ashlyn's ex, she's a royal pain in the arse. Adds interest to the job, if you ask me.”

The voices got stronger as they got to the third floor.

“Don't you fucking tell me that anymore! You have no fucking idea what love is!” Ashlyn was bellowing.

“I do! It's not my fault you're so emotionally damaged you won't-,!”

“ENOUGH!” Ali shouted, yanking the door open and glaring at Lisbeth. Both exes stood one in front of the other by Ali's desk, but this time the office wasn't a mess. Ashlyn was red from the effort of shouting, her hair dishevelled, and wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, less sophisticated than usual but sexier if possible, while Lisbeth looked like a snake ready to kill, elegant and gorgeous. Both looked at her in surprise and astonishment. “You!” Ali pointed aggressively at Lisbeth, feeling a flame imploding inside that she wasn't sure had something to do with her anger towards her boyfriend, or if it was about how close she and Ashlyn had gotten in the last 24h and how non-inclined she was to having anyone hurt her ever again. “Get out of here before I call the police!”

“Who the fuck is this?” Lisbeth asked Ashlyn, so astonished she forgot to scream. But Ashlyn was too shocked to answer.

“We open at nine, until then you better disappear, and if I see you around here creating scandals again I won't hesitate to call the police. Out. Now!” She added in the end, making Lisbeth jump.

“Don't you talk to me like that!” the high-society girl snapped, then looked at Ashlyn. “Are you going to let-?”

“Who am I to give her orders?” Ashlyn shrugged. “I'll give you a piece of advice though, listen to her and get the fuck out. I don't want to ever see you again in the rest of my life.”

“You're going to regret this,” Lisbeth glared at Ashlyn and stormed to the door, but Ali stopped her blocking the door, to her surprise.

“And I won't forget that threat,” Ali snapped at the woman, glaring at her. “One more and I'll make you eat it.”

That said, Ali and Debbie moved aside and Lisbeth stormed away, cursing under her breath.

“Woah, I'm so proud of you honey,” Debbie said proudly patting Ali's back. Ali relaxed and grinned, while Ashlyn broke into laughter.

“I can't fucking believe it, best thing I've seen all month!” Ashlyn applauded. “What a tiger! Thanks though, she doesn't fear me anymore.”

“You're welcome,” Ali went inside and happily accepted a mug of tea, that Ashlyn had seemingly been prepared before her ex came. “The casual look fits you well.”

“Thank you, you inspired me yesterday. And you must be Debbie,” Ashlyn beamed at the older woman, handing her an 'I <3 Cornwall' mug that Ali knew had been initially prepared for herself. Ashlyn shook her hand and Debbie brought her closer for a hug. “Oh, thanks!”

“It's so nice to meet you, Alex only speaks wonders,” Debbie grinned. She was as tall as Ali, a bit less due to Ali's bit of a heel today, and had short brunette-dyed hair, Ali's chin and big smile, and the same brightness in the eyes. “What gave me away, though?”

“Same smiles,” Ashlyn said happily, starting to prepare another mug for her, “Ali did say you were in town. How are you finding London so far, ma'am?”

“Don't ma'am me, Debbie is fine. Or Deb,” Debra giggled, taking a sip of her tea. “I've always loved it here, studied here, got friends here, but then again the countryside always calls my name back.”

“What's this?” Ali asked, seeing a mountain of wedding-related folders on top of her desk.

“You can keep it,” Ashlyn said, pouring her tea in another mug. “My beloved ex brought it over to make me pay half of the wedding-cancellation expenses. Told her I'm not paying a penny, the cheater should pay. She cannot legally force me, I already consulted Whitney.”

“We could burn it,” Ali said nonchalant, with a shrug, putting the folders in the trash.

“That's what I thought, but I thought you'd call me out on lack of ecology,” Ali snorted a laugh, and Debbie looked amused at them. “My apologizes, Debbie, mornings are usually calmer around here.”

“Oh, no worries. I'm divorced, I know the drill,” Debbie said looking warmly at her over her tea.

“Mum was just heading back home, but she offered to drive me so she could meet you, she's a huge fan,” Ali explained.

“I'm flattered, and also saddened I'm much less amusing than Ali probably made me appear.”

Debbie giggled, shaking her head.

“Nonsense! She did say you had a juicy night, though. I understand about confidentiality, but I'm very intrigued...”

“Oh, so am I,” Ali looked greedy at Ashlyn, who half smiled.

“All right, you wolves. I guess I owe it after that spectacular strategy of defence,” Ashlyn locked the door and came back to them. “Turns out John and Landry's work meeting wasn't in the law firm the night Lula died. It was a meeting in John's office in his mother's house. He goes there so often, because of his mother's illness, he's been occupying his Dad's old studio, and Tony Landry goes to visit his sister a lot, so they're using the space for work. Tony said he arrived at seven, and left at nine, after dinner, met his wife and she's a good witness. He said he left before John, who arrived an hour after his uncle, but that Lady Bristow's caretaker confirmed John left at half past ten, without time to kill Lula. The nurse has a clock right by Lady Bristow's bed to check the time of her meds, and she confirmed to the police that John left after the last dose of meds, the half past ten dose.”

“So none of them had the chance,” Ali resumed, and Ashlyn nodded. Then she realized Ashlyn had bags under her eyes and no make-up, and wondered how much had she slept.

“Tony confirmed he wasn't on board with Lula's adoption and had a huge fight with Lady Bristow and her husband, as she said, back in the day, but he said it wasn't because he didn't want his sister to have a child. He said he thought John was a very jealous and hurt boy and that he was in need for attention after losing his brother, and that another sibling wouldn't help him. In fact, according to him, John and Lula fought a lot, were the moon and the sun. Apparently, Tony thought John was traumatized because he was present when Charlie died. So the theory of evil uncle also seems unlikely. But I noticed he had a lipstick stain in the neck of his shirt, you know? And I know his wife doesn't use lipstick. Back in the day, Charlie called her his Odd Aunt, because she hated make-up, said if you were pretty enough you didn't need to fake it. But the lipstick was the same colour of Tansy Bestigui's.”

“Affair,” Ali raised her eyebrows.

“This is more and more interesting by the second,” Debbie admitted. “Like a film.”

“I asked Tansy about it this morning. She called me calmly, said she was staying at a friend's, that she had left her husband and wanted to tell the truth. She said she already told the police. She heard a man who had a familiar voice she can't quite pinpoint, screaming at Lula, saying she had to give him what was rightfully his, calling her a thief. She confessed she had been having an affair with Tony, and that last night after my dinner with him, he called her and implored her to help, because after talking with me, he was more and more sure that it was murder. Then DI Wardle called. Apparently the investigation was originally managed by a jerk I know well, Wardle's boss, but he got sick and very towards the end, Wardle took over. Wardle told me he had some doubts about the case and his boss didn't listen, but now he wants us to work together.”

“Oh, assholes,” Ali rolled eyes. “So now we have to help him?”

“Can't really say no to the police, I agreed we'd share information. So I shared mine and he shared more of his, and told me they had investigating a Rochelle Onifade, she's a squatter Lula took from the streets and befriended after they met in rehab from drugs years ago. Ciara told me a bit about her and last night Tony told me she was just trying to get money from Lula. Maybe it's a long shot, but they seemed very close. But also, Tony told me he's detected John monthly takes five thousand quid from the family fund. John says it's for my expenses, and also previous detectives, but I told him it's not true, and now we're thinking maybe... maybe he paid Rochelle to finish Lula, now he's paying for her silence. He was the brains, she the executer. According to Wardle, they never managed to get her.”

“All for more money?” Ali frowned.

“Seems like it. John would inherit generously, and Rochelle would have a lifetime of money. In any case, I'm going to get Rochelle now, hence my more casual look, and then we're going to meet Guy Sommé, figure out if Lula told him anything about this secret brother. Tony knew nothing about Lula's attempts to find her biological family, but if she found her brother, she might've asked her good friend Guy to make something for him, and because she wanted to leave everything to him, it would explain why John would want her killed, so he would inherit instead of this stranger.”

“We're going to need a lot of physical evidence.”

“I'm on it,” Ashlyn finished her tea. “I'll pick you up in about four hours, I'm leaving now. It was lovely to meet you Debbie, hopefully next time we have more time.”

“Looking forward to it, good luck.”

“Happy tailing!” Ali chuckled at her, and saw her go.

  
  



	12. True family

**Chapter 12: True family.**

It took Ashlyn a good half an hour to find Rochelle between squats, but when she did, which she knew because the black woman was the best dressed of all squatters, which Ashlyn, having been one, knew well, Rochelle ran like hell and Ashlyn had to run after her, finally catching her after a twenty-minute persecution, with her knee screaming for mercy. It took two burgers for Rochelle to collaborate and tell her she and Lula were great friends, and that the money John gave her was because he was such a snob he feared she'd go and tell the press everything about Lula's brother, because she was the only one who knew who he was. Jonah Agyeman was a soldier Lula had discovered after her mother reached her looking for the fame, blurted out Lula's Dad's name, and it turned out even if the father was a dead former university professor, he had left a living son for Lula to track down. Jonah and her had spoken on the phone, and Lula had told him she wanted to give him all she had, so that John, whom she disliked, wouldn't get a penny. Not just that, but Rochelle had actual evidence.

“She gave me a phone to use to call him without being tracked down,” she said, handing it to Ashlyn. “So her family wouldn't find it, nor press. See that number that appears so often? It was Jonah's. They were going to meet the night Lula died. Don't know what went wrong. I called him afterwards, asked what happened... he was freaking out. He said he was going to the flat when she saw her fall and ran away, not understanding if it was a trap or what.”

Ashlyn was so full of surprise, Rochelle agreed for her to keep the phone, and so Ashlyn put it in an evidence bag and, thoughtful, went back to the office to pick-up Ali. She told her about what she had discovered through her inner office door as she changed into her suit to see the designer, and finished the story as they got in the taxi to see Guy Sommé. Ali was as amazed as Ashlyn was, but they shoved it down as they entered the photography studio where the designer had his models working, Ciara between them.

Ciara and Ashlyn exchanged a smile from afar and once the photographs were over, Guy guided the detective and her assistant to her office.

“Ciara told me you made her and Lula some fancy hoodies, right?” Ashlyn asked.

“That's right,” Guy was snobbish, excessively thin, wore make-up and had feminine features. Ashlyn wasn't judgemental, but for the way he looked at her cheap shoes, she knew he was.

“Would you say you and Lula were good friends?”

“I like to think so. She was... Cuckoo was special. She was a free bird,” Guy's dark eyes got glassy with emotion and he cleared his throat. “So what happened to her?”

“I think she was murdered,” Ashlyn said. “You won't happen to know anything about her biological brother, right?”

“That she was dying to find him. She hated her adoptive family, all a bunch of snobs... loved her mother, but recognized she was crazy and overprotective, she wanted to find someone normal, her normal family, someone to connect with... she told me her brother was the son of a teacher, a soldier, someone smart and with culture, and that one day, they'd be a family. She was so excited.”

“What can you tell me about this dress?” Ashlyn asked, showing him a photograph of a dress identical to the one Lula wore when she died, that she had found online.

“A beauty. Lula asked me to find her something to wear for when she met her brother. I didn't design this one, but she found it on her own, asked my opinion, said it was from Vashti, I think... I told her she'd look gorgeous in it.”

“Did you know anything about Rochelle Onifade?”

“Who?”

“A squatter. Lula's friend.”

“Oh, didn't know it was her name... I never took that one seriously. Told Cuckoo that she was only in this friendship for her money, but she adored her so much she gave her something I gave her as a present, my new exclusive purses that haven't come out yet. They're purses with double bottom, you know? So they can hide the weed,” he snorted a laugh, shaking his head.

Deciding there was nothing else Sommé could tell them, Ashlyn ended the meeting and the two women got back in the taxi. They were just about to start commenting what they had just listened when Ashlyn's phone rang and Ashlyn took it.

“Harris,” she said as usual.

“He's here!” Rochelle's panicked voice came, and Ashlyn heard a rush. “He's coming to kill me! He knows I g-AH!” The call went dead and Ashlyn sat there pale, for an instant before bellowing to the driver.

“Turn around!”

Twenty minutes later, Ashlyn and Ali were running two at a time the steps into the flat Lula had gotten Rochelle but that the latter didn't usually occupy, accustomed to hiding from the police in the squats, as she didn't want to be interrogated by them, fearing they'd accuse her of things she didn't do and imprison her. She did do drugs, so there was also that.

“ROCHELLE!” Ashlyn bellowed, knocking hard on the door. Police was already coming, but hearing no noise, Ashlyn threw herself against the door and managed for it to open. She stumbled into the house, Ali behind her. It was all one room with two doors, the bathroom and the bedroom, that was opened, so they knew straight away that there was no one there. “Rochelle!”

“Ashlyn,” Ali pointed at the bathroom door, and they saw there was water coming from under it. Ashlyn walked towards it slowly, and saw Rochelle's own phone broken on the floor, blood stains leading to the bathroom door.

“Stay here,” Ashlyn said, and opened the door. There, she saw Rochelle, asleep in the bathtub, with blood pouring out of her head. Ashlyn rushed to turn off the taps and took Rochelle from the Tube, screaming in pain as she boiling water burned her hands,but not letting Rochelle go. She took her bride style and put her on the dry floor of the living room, starting CPR, but she knew she was gone.

And so was her purse.

**. . .**

“It wasn't your fault,” Ali said, taking Ashlyn's hands one by one and covering them in pomade for burns that she had just gotten at the pharmacy. They were back in the office, and Ashlyn's eyes were glued to the screen of her laptop, as she watched the CCTV footage again, feeling she had to have missed something.

“John killed her,” Ashlyn murmured. “I should've warned her I thought he was the murderer.”

“You did what you thought was best, it was her responsibility to make deals with someone she knew wasn't trustworthy,” Ali murmured, carefully taking care of the reddened hands. The paramedics who had taken Rochelle's body had already checked them and said they weren't serious burns, but she knew they still had to hurt a lot. “You're a brilliant detective. You'll avenge them.”

“Oh my God,” Ashlyn suddenly took a hand away and hammered a key with her finger to stop the recording. “There. See? Something shines in the back of the hoodie.”

Ali narrowed her eyes and saw what Ashlyn saw. There was one millisecond in which something in the back of the dark hoodie seemed to shine with a street lamp's reflection.

“Maybe a hoodie decoration?”

“I bet you the little money I've got left, that what's shinning says 'Crazy Sisters'.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was on my eyes the entire time, and I fucking didn't see it,” Ashlyn shook her head in disbelief. “Lula gave that purse to Rochelle not to hide weed, but to hide the will in which she leaves everything to her biological brother, that's why John took it from Rochelle, who she killed because he's probably been spying her for a long time suspecting she had the will, and when he saw her give me the phone, he knew it was a matter of time before she said too much to me. John took the keys from Lady Bristow, who had them, he had heard about Lula's attempts to find her brother just like others did, so that night he went to confront her. It wasn't planned like we thought it was, Ali. It was a complete punch of luck. He didn't know Jonah was coming the same night. He came by car, which is why he doesn't appear at first in the CCTV, then saw Derrick leave and went in, took the flowers, confronted Lula about her brother and the will and her betrayal if you wish of her adoptive family, and then he exploded and pushed her. He didn't think he'd kill her from the start, he wasn't caught out of incredible luck. He freaked out and grabbed the hoodie Lula had, forgetting the flowers. Lady Bristow said she hadn't seen the hoodie amongst her belongings, neither had John or Tony when I asked them, because John took it that night so police never returned it. He used it to cover himself, and that's what shines.”

“But what about his alibi? He was with his mother, the nurse said so.”

Ashlyn nodded slowly.

“I'll figure that out. You need to go home now, Ali.”

“What? No! If he comes after you...”

“You cannot be here. Go home, call Agyeman,” she handed her the number scribbled on a paper, having given the phone to the police. “Get as much information as you can, and go straight to Abby. I need to go to visit Lady Bristow before John leaves work.”

“What about you?”

“I'll call you when I'm back here,” Ashlyn promised, taking the CCTV footage and sending it via email to Ali, just in case. “But don't come around here, please.”

After enough convincing, Ashlyn ran to get the Tube and, despite the pain in her hands, marched to Greenwich and made it to Lady Bristow's house on time. She found Lady Bristow's nurse with the sleeping old lady, as usual.

“How is she?” Ashlyn asked. The nurse looked sadly.

“I don't think she's got a month left, being honest. The cancer has advanced fast.”

Ashlyn nodded, feeling honestly sad. Then she saw the clock the nurse guided herself with and it hit her. It was an old clock on top of the fireplace, and it was one of those glassless ones whose hands you could move easily with a finger. That's how John had done it. At nine, when Tony Landry left, he had moved the clock one hour backwards... but how hadn't the nurse noticed?

“Excuse me,” Ashlyn looked at the caretaker. “The night Lula died, and John was here... did you ever fall asleep while he was here? I mean... you do rest, right?” she half smiled and the nurse giggled.

“I take advantage when Lady Bristow sleeps, yes. Mr Bristow sat with me for some chattering, he's lonely, the poor thing... he offered me some juice and afterwards I fell asleep. He woke me up to let me know it was time for Lady Bristow's last medicine at half past ten.”

He put something in her drink, moved the clock an hour ahead, woke her up, left letting the nurse think it was half past ten when it probably wasn't even ten yet, giving him enough time to head to Lula's... then he'd wake up early morning, come and change the clock again. It all made sense in Ashlyn's head now.

“Can I use the bathroom?” Ashlyn asked.

The nurse told him where it was and Ashlyn went upstairs, but instead of going to the bathroom she walked into the studio John Bristow had been using for work. Everything was like Ashlyn remembered in her childhood, and for a moment, she could see Charlie in front of her, calling her to keep coming, telling her 'look how cool!' climbing on a chair to reach a bookshelf she now reached without issues, and as she put gloves on and removed the books, it was like Charlie did it with her, revealing a safebox. And suddenly, she knew the password.

Call it a whim, or the same sensation she had felt twice in her life before the worst happened, but Ashlyn instinctively put the date of Charlie's death and the safebox encrusted in the wall opened easily. And there appeared Charlie's bike bell, Lula's purse that she gave to Rochelle, and the hoodie Guy Sommé had given Lula and that John used to hide his identity. Ashlyn filmed it all with her phone, and continued to film as she opened the secret bottom of the purse and Lula's Last Will and Testament appeared, giving it all to Jonah Agyeman.

**. . .**

With the video and photographs sent to Ali and Abby, she left everything as she found it and, feeling surprisingly calm, she returned to her office and grabbed a can of Doom Bar as she sat at her desk, the room illuminated only by a lamp. She had forgotten lunch time and now her stomach growled, but she didn't care. It was past six now, and in the morning, John would be arrested. Hopefully Ali would find Jonah that night and he'd be ready to testify by the morning. She waited there silently, and then after a few minutes, she heard steps up the stairs and the door opened. Unsurprisingly, John Bristow appeared in her inner office, looking pale, but smiling in a way that gave Ashlyn chills.

“Good evening,” Ashlyn said calmly.

“I brought this to celebrate your advances in the case. I was just visiting Mum and the nurse said you were there.” He was holding a bottle of wine.

“I was.”

“Why?”

Ashlyn pursed her lips and shrugged.

“I think you know why, John. You're going down perhaps not for triple murder as it should be, but surely for double.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” John half smiled, feigning innocence.

“Y'know, it's cool you think so low of me,” Ashlyn sipped from her beer. “I know, I'm your brother's poor, squatter of a friend and I have a dying agency, but I'm fucking good at my job, believe it or not. This agency doesn't sink because of lack of efficiency, I assure you. And over an hour ago, I opened your Dad's safebox using the date of your brother's murder and I saw all you had inside. The photographs and video are now in police's power. Tomorrow morning, you'll be history.”

“You have no proof... I've never put anything in that safebox. It was Tony's and Mum's.”

“You were the only one with Charlie when he died. His bicycle was found with his body,” Ashlyn snapped, glaring at him. “The reason the bell was in your power was because you fought with him and threw him down, probably hit him with a stone or something. You always loved that bell because it made this funny sound like an old horn, so you stole it as your victory thing, and then threw the bike down as well. And you know why I know that bell? Because Charlie's heart was infinitely bigger than yours and he lent me his bicycle multiple times. I loved that bell too, because every time I heard it, it meant Charlie was there. And I know that bicycle wasn't heavy because Charlie taught me to ride a bike with it, and I feel with it a bunch too. You couldn't help being jealous, right John?”

John had gotten livid, and his lip trembled.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“It doesn't matter,” Ashlyn shrugged, looking down and taking another sip of her beer. “Deny it all you want. We all know how envious you were of Charlie. He was the handsome one, the smart one, the funny one, the skilled one... he always made your parents laugh more than you ever could. And then Lula was the little princess, the gorgeous model, kind-hearted, only wanted to find her real family...” she let out a long sigh. “Their worst mistake was ending in the wrong family.”

“My poor mother is dying, I won't let you ruin our family's good name with your fake shit,” John grumbled. “You're fired. I'll find someone else.”

“Okay.”

Her indifference seemed to be too much for his ego. He wanted her to fear him, wanted her to beg him, but Ashlyn didn't have the energy, and was too saddened by the truth of her friend's death, and she wished Lady Bristow would die without knowing, without the pain of knowing her least liked son killed her most beloved children. It was wrong of her to give favouritism between her children, but the price was still too high.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye. He threw the bottle aiming at her head and she had just enough time to throw herself to the floor so the bottle crashed instead with her window, breaking it, but not breaking her skull. Then Bristow was on top of her, punching her and she punched back, feeling blood in her eyebrow at the same time she broke Bristow's nose. He then tried to scape, and she got up and grabbed him from behind, but he kicked back straight into her injured knee and she screamed, falling backwards and feeling agonizing pain in her possibly broken knee.

Then Bristow was on her again, but before he could collide his fist against her face, an umbrella appeared out of nowhere and knocked him unconscious. Ashlyn groaned in pain and in the darkness, she saw Ali's face hover over her, filled with worry, and heard sirens.

“It's okay, Ash,” Ali grabbed her leg to keep her from twisting in pain, and caressed her face with a free hand. “You're going to be fine.”

**. . .**

When Ashlyn first had a feeling of conscience, she could feel the warmth of the sun against her face, and kept her eyes closed. Then, she heard voices around her, at the same time that she became conscious of the warmth and comfort of a bed under her. She hadn't slept in a bed in almost a week, and it felt bloody nice, even more because she was enjoying what she knew were the remainders of a high dose of painkillers, and she felt in cloud nine.

“Good thing you got there, Ali,” Whitney was saying sounding relieved. “How did you know?”

“I had a hunch, after Ashlyn sent me the videos and photographs, that he'd come and she'd be alone.”

“Less chattering and more giving me water,” Ashlyn murmured hoarsely, feeling her throat itch, and opening her eyes to see she was in a hospital room, her injured leg elevated over pillows, and her torso somewhat propelled up, so she could clearly see Ali and Whitney sitting by her bed and Abby and Nick standing nearby. Ashlyn side-smiled drowsily at her friends.

“Here,” Ali smiled warmly at her and helped her drink a glass of water she produced from the bedside table. “How are you feeling?”

“Like these painkillers are phenomenal. Did that bastard break my leg?” Ashlyn rubbed her face with one hand, trying to feel more awake.

“Luckily it's only tendon and ligament damage, you finally got that surgery you needed,” Nick, who was a doctor and Whitney's husband, replied. He was friends of Ashlyn since high-school, and she had introduced them. They had grown to become best friends due to his relationship to Whitney afterwards.

“Worth losing my agency over,” Ashlyn shrugged.

“Actually...” Ali looked so cheerful she was particularly gorgeous. “You're not losing the agency.”

“What do you mean? I'm in debt up to my eyeballs.”

“I figured, I do your books, remember? But it's only been fifteen hours since Bristow tried to kill you and was arrested, and the phone hasn't stopped ringing. I've had to deviate calls to my mobile to make sure I wouldn't miss one. You'll be home on Tuesday, you're staying with Whitney and Nick, don't argue me, and Whitney has sued so the building's lift is fixed as soon as possible and then you can do interviews and be the brain and I'll do the street work for you until your leg fully recovers.”

“What? But your contract ends today.”

“In a month, all your debts will be paid,” Ali said. “I did the Math. You're back at work in two Mondays, by then the lift will be fixed, and your schedule is full for the first two weeks, your new clients understood you just had surgery. I'm already taking care of minor cases to get some money going, so you'll have no problem paying the rent this month, and I'm happy not being paid until October. Or November. Eric is well paid, we'll be fine.”

“Does he agree with that?”

“He does want to marry me, so...” Ali shrugged and chuckled. “Unless you really want me to go. But if you don't, we could reach a deal, outside Temporary Solutions...”

Ashlyn snorted a laugh.

“Who am I to stand in front of Alexandra Krieger?” Ashlyn said gracefully. “Welcome aboard, warrior.” Ali beamed happily.

Ali came sporadically as often as their agency and her fiancé allowed, and when she accompanied home when Tuesday came, opening the doors for her to crutch her way into the Ellacotts' guest room, Whitney and Nick left for work and Ali stayed with her for a while, playing chess as Ashlyn sat up in bed and Ali sat on the verge of the bed.

“By the way,” Ali remembered suddenly, “thank you for the dress.”

“So you did get it,” Ashlyn commented.

“Abby gave it to me the morning after your attack, she took it from your cabinet and told me it was your gift for my good service as I was leaving. I know what it cost, Ashlyn, and as much as it's the most stunning dress I've ever seen-,”

“I know it wasn't very appropriate,” Ashlyn interrupted, moving her chess piece. “I just thought you looked beautiful in it. And I thought you had poured an incredible amount of effort and hard-work into this, you even saved our lives in the road... it was my way of saying thank you. That's all. Don't eat your brains out.”

“How did you pay it?”

“I have some savings, from inheritances, Navy...” Ashlyn shrugged. “I keep it for emergencies. But Mum always said money is only valuable if you share it, so... I figured I could buy my friend something nice. After all, if it wasn't for you, I still wouldn't know what happened to Charlie. It's been bugging me for over twenty years, Ali, you can't imagine how relieved I am, and how grateful.”

Ali's lips pressed and curved into a soft smile and she moved her chess piece to take one of Ashlyn's towers down.

“You're the genius, I'm just willing to learn. But I'm grateful too, you know? I always wanted to do something police related and no one ever believed in me. You did, and you gave me a chance. It means the world. So thank you,” she leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Ashlyn's cheek.

The detective blushed and smiled.

“Are we going to play or be cheesy, princess?”

It took a few weeks for Ashlyn to feel back on track, as she crutched her way around the office and alternated work with frequent rehab sessions. In one of her first days back in the office, she found herself on the sofa in front of Ali's desk, with her leg up on a chair, watching Ali with a soft smile as her assistant excitedly told her about how her first tailing had gone, following a husband who was cheating on his wife, taking photographs and composing a case that would give them six hundred quid, and she was barely listening to Ali because there were moments in which she was too focused just looking at her to hear her, but in that moment she made two big decisions;

That she was going to train Ali to be the best detective sidekick England had ever seen.

And she was never letting her go.

  
  



	13. The Silkworm

**Chapter 13: The Silkworm.**

When Ashlyn woke up on the seventh week of Ali's employment under her agency, she was in a really good mood. Sleeping had finally started to come a bit easier, and her anxiety had lowered incredibly, gracing her with a level of happiness and relaxation she hadn't enjoyed much in months. Truth was, having Ali in the office made everything infinitely easier, tailing cheaters, doing her books of accounts, organizing files and simplifying things for Ashlyn when she had taken painkillers or anxiolytic medicines, and wasn't very sharp, mentally.

Truth was, recovery was a long process. Her injury, although not as terrible as it could've been, was incredibly painful to deal with, and Ashlyn had a family record that made her very reticent to taking medicine, but when she was finally able to crutch her way around with relative ease, having strong arms as she did, Ali had accompanied her to the very first visit to Charlie's grave she had ever had, right after Lady Bristow had died. They had left flowers in the Bristow crypt, and the wound of Charlie's loss had gradually started to heal.

That led for her brain to focus on other wounds, starting by her ex-fiancée's ones. Lisbeth had insisted on begging for her to come back through texting and unanswered phonecalls several times a day during weeks, and finally, three weeks after their break-up, there had been a magazine cover with her face kissing Duke of Croy Jago Ross, announced their comeback after having dated for a few months prior to Ashlyn arriving in Lisbeth's life eleven years before, and that was how Lisbeth had made eleven years look like a 'time of experimentation' that 'resulted in disaster' as 'clearly Jago is the love of my life, and I was just confused and made a mistake, wasting years away with the wrong person'. Consequently, Ashlyn had gotten so drunk one night that she had barely been able to remember her name the next day, but afterwards, with the knowledge that Lisbeth had only meant to say what would hurt her the most, Ashlyn decided to move on with her life, take that as proof that marrying her would've been a terrible mistake, and focus on getting her life back on track and being happy.

Such was her effort and determination of being happy, that Ashlyn had given in to Whitney's begging and had started going to therapy every Saturday morning, just like others went to Church every Sunday morning, and although she wasn't sure it helped more or less, the knowledge that she was taking care of herself like a true grown-up was enough to cheer her up. She felt strong, capable and no longer a mess, and Nick and Whitney were pleased having her home as, like Whitney had recalled to Ali one night as the four dinned in the house, 'while my dear husband's presence is evident just by the trail of socks and shoes, one wouldn't tell Ashlyn lives here', because Ashlyn was incredibly clean and organized, with military discipline.

On this particular morning, it took Ashlyn little effort to get out of bed, shower, get dressed, and after a full English breakfast and a drive to work courtesy of her friend Whitney, appear at her office. By then, she was only using one crutch, to support weight along her injured leg, and she was limping less and less every day, so it was easy to walk inside her office, and she immediately felt warm inside seeing Ali turn to look at her from the kitchenette with a grin, despite having received a message from her ex congratulating her on her birthday, that she had ignored.

“Happy birthday!” Ali announced excitedly, raising her arms and rushing to hug Ashlyn.

“Thank you,” Ashlyn half-smiled, enjoying her hugs, a new, occasional gift.

“I got you a little something when I went to Masham last weekend, Mum and Kyle insisted it's from them too,” Ali grabbed a pretty basket with a lace from her desk and handed it to Ashlyn. “Masham has some big beer industry and this is a selection of best Yorkshire beers, but I sneaked inside packages of Cornish biscuits just in case they suck.” Ashlyn laughed and beamed holding the basket and looking at it, feeling really fortunate.

“Thank you, Ali, you shouldn't have bothered... I love it.”

Ali looked so pleased with herself, it gave Ashlyn extra happiness.

“Just wanted to have a nice little gesture with the best boss I've ever had.”

“Aw, sweet, I truly do appreciate it,” Ashlyn put the basket back on Ali's desk and grabbed one of its packs of biscuits, opening it and offering it to Ali. “Come on, help a girl out.”

The brunette grabbed one and moaned as she munched it, making Ashlyn giggle.

“It's so good...!”

“I know, we're good at being sweet in Cornwall,” Ashlyn joked around, and accepted tea offer, a mug of creosote liquid exactly as she liked it the most, strong.

“Talking about sweet things, on Friday we're celebrating your birthday dinner at The Tottenham for your absolute joy, we've booked their dining room and we're having a true Dirty 30 celebration. Whitney and Nick are coming, my brother Kyle, Abby with her wife Glennon, your friends Tobin and Megan with Megan's wife, and I took the liberty of inviting my friends Kelley and Christen, old friends from high school who funnily enough ended-up in London too. Oh, and I almost forgot! Abby located your friend... Dave?”

“Dave Polworth?” Ashlyn raised eyebrows, surprised.

“Yes! That one. She got him to come, his wife was also so wonderful to stay behind with the kids so your very good friend could come. He's one of the close ones, right? I was worried we left the important people missing, or we fucked up the guest list...” Ashlyn chuckled at her nervousness.

“Ali, I'm so happy you got the ones you got, honestly can't think of anyone else who stayed behind. Dave's been one of my closest friends for years, then he was with me in the Special Investigations Branch of the Navy Police, his wife is also lovely, but I understand they have three daughters and nannies aren't cheap. And I'm happy about meeting your friends too, I guess everyone will probably bring others, and I love meeting new people.”

“Really? I had you for an introvert, for some reason.”

Ashlyn snorted a laugh and Ali half-smiled, amused.

“Introvert? Oh, I was so popular, once I figured how to make friends. I studied Communications and Interpersonal relationships in uni, and I might've lasted three months, but I did the most with them, see Dave, I met him on the first day and we're still going strong. Now he lives in Bristol though, so I hadn't seen him... woah, since I came back to London,” Ashlyn looked surprised with herself. “So is your man coming?”

“Well...” Ali shrugged. “I told him to come, but he didn't want to. He's not very extroverted, rather shy.”

There was a knock on the door and it opened, showing a middle-aged lady with glasses on. She was short, with grey hair, and looked to be surrounded by aliens, as if she was lost and had arrived by accident.

“Hello,” Ashlyn smiled warmly at her, offering a hand to shake. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Detective Harris?” she asked, shaking Ashlyn's hand. Ashlyn nodded. “I'm Leonora Quine. I'm here about my husband.”

“Do you have an appointment?” Ashlyn asked. Lately she had to go by appointments, because her clients piled-up and there was always a waiting list. Like Ali had anticipated, her debts paid by themselves.

“No, I didn't know...” Mrs Quine murmured, insecure.

“Mr Capaldi will be here in ten minutes,” Ali said holding her mug on one hand while checking her computer, where she had created a very elaborated calendar colour-coded.

“Okay, we'll squeeze you in. I'm sure Mr Capaldi will be so polite to wait five extra minutes in any case, didn't he study in the private schools?” Ashlyn commented with Ali, filled with amusement, half smiling and receiving a smile in return. “Would you want some tea, Mrs Quine?” Three minutes later and with mugs of tea and a tray of biscuits, Ashlyn sat at her desk across Mrs Quine. “So, what's the problem?”

“My husband's been missing for ten days,” Mrs Quine indicated. “I saw you on the papers... about the model. I thought you'd help.”

“And I will. Have you gone to the police?”

“They're useless,” she puffed impatiently, as if she had had this conversation far too many times. “I called them once before and they were so angry when they found out he had gone off with a friend, just that. Owen... he's got this habit of going off sometimes. He's a writer.” She added, as if that was a clever explanation.

Ashlyn was as surprised as she was amused, and drank her tea slowly.

“He's done this before then? Disappear?”

“He's so emotional, always going off on one... but now it's been ten days, and even though I know he's really upset, I need him home. There's Orlando, and I've got so much to do, I can't always be mothering him too...”

“Orlando?” Ashlyn thought of the sunny city, the Harry Potter Theme Park and the lakes. It didn't fit Leonora Quine, with her ancient coat and her appearance of not being able to afford such big trips.

“She's our daughter. She needs looking after, I had to leave her with our neighbour to come here.” Ashlyn envisioned a little girl with a cute little flower dress missing her Daddy. “I think I know where he is, so it should be easy for you to find him. The problem is I can't get hold of the address and nobody'll take my calls. But we need him home.”

“If it's as simple as making a phone call,” Ashlyn said as gently and softly as possible, “why not ask a friend to do it?”

“Edna can't do it,” Mrs Quine said. The implication that she only had one friend softened Ashlyn's heart more than usual, and she felt touched and saddened at once. “Owen told them not to say where he is. I need...” she bit her lip. “Someone who forces them to say.”

“Owen Quine, that's your husband.”

“Yes. He's a famous novelist,” she added full of pride.

“Really?” Ashlyn raised eyebrows. “Cool, what did he write?”

“ _Hobart's Sin_ ,” it was good that Ashlyn was good at not expressing emotions facially if she wanted to, because she had never heard of such book or such author, but didn't want to depress the woman, who looked so proud, any further. “There was this party, full of publishers and all... he didn't want to take me, but I insisted. I heard Christian Fisher telling Owen about a writer's retreat. Owen didn't want to tell me about it, 'cause he said the point was to get away from wife and kids.”

“Christian Fisher?” Ashlyn started writing down in her small notebook, wanting to remember every detail.

“Some young publisher.”

“Have you tried asking him directly?”

“For a whole week. His secretary keeps saying he'll call me back,” she snorted a laugh. “Bollocks. But you can get it out of Fisher, right? You've done what police could never do.”

The publicity from the Lula Landry case had brought in so many clients Ashlyn had had to accelerate her training of Ali, putting her in a few weekend courses, including a surveillance one, every now and then, as she was recovering from surgery. Ashlyn Harris' name was starting to not be related to her father's name, thanks to the commonness of her surname, and she was so very grateful for that.

“You've mentioned you really need him back, is there something I can help with while we find him?”

“Well... someone's putting shit through our letter box.”

“What?” Ashlyn scowled. “Since your husband disappeared, or did this happen before?”

“No, ever since. It's dog shit, in plastic bags. Disgusting. Every night, it happens. And this odd woman came to the door.” She paused as if she expected Ashlyn to question her, as if she enjoyed it. In her career, Ashlyn had found that the loneliest people enjoyed being questioned, enjoyed being the focus of somebody's undivided attention for once.

“When did this woman come to the door?”

“Last week. Asked for Owen, I said he wasn't there, and she told me to tell him Angela died, before walking off.”

“She's a total stranger?”

“Yes.”

“And Angela?”

“No idea who is she. But Owen has some weird female fans... like, once a woman sent him photos dressed like one of his characters. Sometimes he gives writing classes, so some people know his address.”

Ashlyn nodded, scribbling it all down in a handwriting that funnily enough, Ali understood with surprising ease. While a lot of people called it 'a complete and utter mess', Ali simply described it as 'creative and original'.

“Okay, all of this is weird stuff, but I'll look into it. Anything else?”

“I think someone's following me. A different woman... the woman who came had long, red hair. This one has dark hair, dark skin, and she's very tall. I've seen her behind me thrice, she doesn't live in my area, I've never seen her before in the over thirty years I've lived in Ladbroke Grove.”

“All right, I understand... so going back to Owen... you mentioned he was upset?”

“He had a huge fight with his agent. Liz, she told him his latest book is the best thing in the world, but then next day she says it's unpublishable during a fancy dinner she bought him.”

“Really?” Ashlyn frowned. “Why?”

“Ask _her_ ,” Leonora said in a flash of temper. “He was so upset, of course, two years working on the book... he came to his study home, all upset, took all his book, notes, everything... while cursing all over. He shoves it all in a bag, goes off, and haven't seen him since.”

“What about his mobile? Not picking up, I imagine?”

“Never does when he's this upset.”

“Okay...” Ashlyn said slowly, taking a deep breath and leaning back. “Mrs Quine-,”

  
  


  
  



	14. Back in the game

**Chapter 14: Back in the game.**

Ashlyn interrupted herself as she heard Ali shouting 'HEY! I SAID SHE'S BUSY!' and her inner office's door yanked open, showing Mr Capaldi standing there, tall and broad, fit, muscled, and in his fancy French suit.

“I have an appointment,” he said matter-of-factly. “I've been waiting here for five minutes.” He added, indignant. Ali appeared behind him.

“Get out of here, I said she's busy, if you have complaints, we have a website.” Ali snapped in one of her rare flashes of temper Ashlyn secretly enjoyed. “I'm so sorry, Detective Harris.” She always referred to her with the utmost respect in front of strangers.

“Leave me alone, I've got my appointment, I've been waiting here—!” Mr Capaldi arrogantly shouted at Ali, who glared at him, but Ashlyn cut him, standing up on her one crutch.

“Mr Capaldi,” Ashlyn said calmly. “I'd control your tone in front of my assistant, because I don't consent on anyone disrespecting her, and I learned how to knock someone down with two fingers in the Navy. So unless you want to end up in the Emergency Room, shut up and do as Ms Krieger says.”

Mr Capaldi got red with indignation and stormed into the office, furious, until he stood in front of Ashlyn, a head taller, but Ashlyn clenched her jaw and looked at him straight in the eyes.

“Are you threatening me? Do you know who I am?”

“If I had to guess, I'd say a lower-class student from public schools who couldn't afford better manners, but the fact that I come from lower-class and public schools and still manage to find my education proves you're actually just a jerk, without excuses,” Mrs Quine snorted a laugh. “Ms Krieger, please, would you be so kind to give Mr Capaldi the file with his stuff and the last bill?”

“It'll be my pleasure,” Ali said with genuine enjoyment in her voice, and turned around.

Mr Capaldi was livid. He clenched and unclenched his fists, his lips opening and closed as he struggled to find something truly offensive to say, and then he grabbed Ashlyn by the neck of her shirt, but she was having none of that. With a firm hit of her forearm horizontally on top of his wrists in a typical martial arts move, she freed herself, and then pushed him hard with two hands on his chest. He stumbled with her cabinet and fell on his arse, cursing. Ali appeared right away, hearing the noise and looking alarmed

“All right?” she asked. Ashlyn was glaring at the man, her fists clenched white and her breathing raged as she stared at him with disgust and the same threatening something that lions showed for their preys. Ali knew all of those were her classical signs of extreme pissed-off and lose of control. And she knew the detective was further angry for having lost her shit, even if so slightly.

“Mr Capaldi, if I ever seen you again around here I'll have you arrested for assault, but you'll be lucky to keep all your bones intact before the patrol arrives.” Ashlyn stormed to Ali with her crutch while the man stood up and grabbed the last invoice, pressing it against the man's chest with anger. “That's two thousand and five hundred pounds, will you pay me now or should I keep you in a bit longer?”

With shaking hands, Mr Capaldi pulled out his wallet and handed Ashlyn the money, and he still had at least another thousand in the wallet, the snob. Ashlyn gave Ali the money and pushed the man out of the door, closing firmly behind him before impatiently going back to her seat, taking a deep breath and smiling at the astonished client.

“My deepest apologizes, Mrs Quine. As I was saying, I'm so sorry to inform you that I sadly don't come cheap at all. It pains me, but I'm freelance and I have to pay rental and all of that,” Ashlyn smiled apologetically.

“That's fine, Liz will pay.”

“Her agent?”

“Yes, Elizabeth Tassel. This is all her fault, so she can take it out of her commission. She's never had such a big client, she'll realize she was in the wrong and beg for him to write for her more.”

Ashlyn didn't feel very confident by this assurance as Leonora herself seemed to. She finished her tea trying to think how best to proceed, and feeling somewhat sorry for Leonora Quine, who seemed inured to her erratic husband’s tantrums, who accepted the fact that nobody would deign to return her calls, who was sure that the only help she could expect had to be paid for. There was a truculent honesty about her, but nevertheless, she had been very demanding with herself in taking on only profitable cases since the business had received its unexpected boost. As much as she hated it, the very few people who had come to Ashlyn with hard-luck stories, hoping that her own personal difficulties (reported and embellished in the press) would move her enough for her to accept helping them free of charge, had left deeply disappointed, even when the stories did touch her deeply.

However, Leonora Quine, who had drunk her tea quite as quickly as Ashlyn, was already on her feet, as though they had agreed terms and everything was settled, leaving her a little astonished.

“I must go now,” she said, “I don’t like leaving Orlando too long. She’s missing her daddy. I’ve told her I'm getting someone to get him back to her.”

Ashlyn's job had lately and, annoyingly, if she admitted it at least to herself and Ali, consisted on helping several wealthy young women rid themselves of City husbands who had become much less attractive to them since the financial crash. There was something appealing about restoring a husband to a wife, for a change. Even more, a good husband, someone so good to his daughter that she genuinely missed him, a feeling Ashlyn had never felt for her father, as far as she could remember.

“All right,” she said, accepting her fate of being the altruistic detective forever, and forever borderline poor. “I’ll need your contact details, Mrs Quine. A photograph of your husband would be very helpful as well.”

She wrote her address and telephone number out for Ashlyn in a round, childish hand, but her request for a photo seemed to surprise her.

“What's the picture for? He’s at that writer’s retreat. Just make Christian Fisher tell you where it is.”

She was through the door before Ashlyn, whose knee needed a bit after the rush of effort thanks to Capaldi, could emerge from behind her desk. She heard her say briskly to Ali: ‘Ta for the tea,’ then the glass door onto the landing opened with a flash and closed with a gentle judder, and her new client had gone.

Ashlyn took her crutch and walked slowly outside, looking tired and annoyed. She raised her eyebrows at Ali, who stared at her from her desk, as if saying 'girl that was wild'. Ali interpreted it more like a complaint about her lack of ability to keep Capaldi in her side of the office, and her ears reddened in embarrassment.

“I'm so sorry about Capaldi, won't happen again.”

The detective frowned and shook her head, flopping on the sofa.

“I don't give a shit about Capaldi, Ali. Are you all right, though? He was quite rude to you.” Ali looked up, surprised about her concern, despite knowing by then how caring Ashlyn was.

“Yeah,” Ali nodded. “You set him right pretty well.”

“I'm learning from the best,” Ashlyn winked at her, half smiling. Ali smiled satisfied. “So, can you get a Christian Fisher, publisher, to tell us the address of an authors' retreat he knows?”

“Start from the beginning?”

Ashlyn told her all about her meeting with Mrs Quine. In the end, Ali looked as stupefied as Ashlyn herself felt, but, both of them having lived weirder situations in the office by then, she simply nodded slowly and scribbled down 'Publisher Christian Fisher, get writer's retreat address' on a post-it she pasted to the side of her computer screen.

“How's your knee doing?” Ali asked as she typed in the computer. “You look tired.”

Due to an addiction past Ali knew very little of, the detective was reticent to taking painkillers, and had very often awoken in the middle of the night by the pain emanating from her still recovering knee. And since she didn't do well with having her sleep interrupted, Ali had often noticed perhaps not bags under her eyes, that didn't usually form with that, but the tiredness in them.

“It's okay,” Ashlyn yawned. “Was awake until late putting up together the file for Lord Whittaker's soon-to-be ex-wife.”

“Cheating confirmed?”

“With three different women simultaneously, and salting millions away offshore. Try the _News of the World_ tomorrow, if you dare.”

“So you sold it to Culpepper?” Dominic Culpepper was a journalist who had a deal with Ashlyn. She sold him stuff, he gave her works, and then sometimes Ashlyn pressed for favours.

“Partially, I like having him work a little for it. Who do I have now?”

“Gunfrey at two. You could use a nap, and I'll get you the Fisher's thing now and then do the surveillance on Hammond.”

“Gunfrey,” Ashlyn shook her head. “Why do I have all these jerks?”

“Mrs Quine doesn't seem like one.”

The older woman raised an eyebrow.

“You knew I was going to take her case from the start, didn't you?” Ali's brown eyes moved from the screen to her and her lips, painted soft crimson, pressed and curved slightly into a smile, as she looked at the screen again, smirking.

“She's your type.”

“She's at least twenty years older than me!”

“Your kind of _client_ , Ashlyn. Besides, you've been complaining about Capaldi for a week, you were doomed to explode.”

“I thought my kind of client were stupid jerks with money.”

“No, that's the kind of client you're forced to get so you can afford me and life in general,” Ali said highly amused. “But you always have a hard time resisting clients who sadden us with their stories. Congrats, you made it a whole month and a half!”

Ali giggled and took the office phone, calling Fisher. Ashlyn chuckled, looking warmly at her and admitting to herself, not for the first time, that her life was nicer and warmer since Ali had appeared in it.

“Hello, it's Detective Ashlyn Harris' assistant,” Ali said politely into the phone. “Can I speak with Mr Christian Fisher, please? It'll only be five minutes. Of course...” Ali raised one finger so Ashlyn knew she was waiting, but the detective didn't get to hear the rest of the conversation.

She had fallen asleep, and, oddly enough, in her sleep she was waking up in her cabin's berth after hearing a huge explosion that made the ship tremble. She looked around in the small room and then registered the alarm sirens, the red lights, and the shouting. She jumped to her feet, not bothering to put shoes on, and yanked the door open just as the stern of the ship sank brusquely, inclining the ship so suddenly that the floor was no longer horizontal and Ashlyn fell backwards, hitting her knee on the wall. Groaning, she scrambled to get out of the room as chaos, screaming and shouting filled her ears, and as she felt the ship start to sink, she saw a load of water suddenly break into the corridor from the more sunken stern, appearing like a hard, powerful stream of water that immediately took two sailors. Ashlyn's eyes widened and she took advantage of the one moment the floor seemed to stabilize horizontally again to run the two big steps, her knee screaming in the process, to get around the corner and reach the very steep stairs, right as the water collided against the wall behind her and in a matter of seconds, as she scrambled to climb the stairs, she felt freezing cold water reach her hips, numbing her pained knee.

Then, Ashlyn managed to reach the floor above, hearing more screaming and chaos and tons of 'RUN, EVERYBODY OUT!' being bellowed all around 'BOMB, BOMB!' She heard the second explosion before she felt it, but then it rocked the ship as if it was just a bit of dust at the mercy of a lion, and she fell down a corridor that was inclined and filled with water within seconds. She hit her head and back hard, hurting her leg further, and saw herself and others swim, fighting for oxygen, and she picked the set of stairs closest to her to climb into what turned out to be the control room.

As her lungs screamed for help, she was terrified to see the entire ship was underwater, as the control room was completely underwater. She swam over the screens and controls towards the opened front window as the ship sank and sank further, fast, until she managed to extricate herself out and then kicked her screaming leg, her healthy one, and every other limb hard in the pitch black darkness -in the ship the red lights had helped, but they were meters down now- until, when she was beginning to feel extremely dizzy, her face hit wind and the night's breeze and she gasped for air.

Ashlyn's eyes opened suddenly as she gasped hard for air and then coughed, as if she had been asphyxiating.

“Easy there,” Ali was next to her, as she leaned forward from inertia, taking hard breaths, and the brunette's hand settled on her lower back, rubbing soothing circles.

“Bollocks,” Ashlyn muttered, realizing she was shaking. “I'm sorry.”

“It's fine,” the detective turned to face her assistant, who smiled warmly. “It's okay.”

“I'm a bloody mess,” Ashlyn dissimulated her guilt with a half smile, but Ali saw right through and shook her head with awkwardness.

“I have hard nights sometimes too.”

“Do you?” she was surprised.

“Why do you think I quit uni?”

“You tell me.”

They stared at each other deeply for one moment, and then Ali shyly shook her head and looked down.

“One day I will, but as stupid as I'll sound, I don't have your strength yet. I'm not ready. I'm sorry.”

Ashlyn narrowed her eyes in concretion and nodded slowly.

“Nothing you say could ever sound stupid,” Ali looked up at her, surprised. “One day you'll be ready, and when you are, I'll be right here for you, just like you've always been for me. No judgement.”

A small smile creped into Ali's face and the younger woman hugged her unexpectedly. Ashlyn loved her hugs and found it hard not to melt into them, her softness, warmth, perfume...

“Thank you,” Ali kissed her shoulder, squeezing her tight.

“No, thank you.”

When they separated, Ali stood up and returned to her desk.

“Mr Fisher insisted you'd go visit him, he's a huge fan, he was so excited there was no way of changing his mind. He said you could come today any time. Crossfire Publishing, Exmouth Market.”

Ashlyn puffed.

“Fine, I'll go... thank you, Ali. Since we're both going out, we can walk outside together?”

“Sure,” Ali smiled, turning her computer off and grabbing her long coat and purse. “I thought you'd take a nap?”

“I'd rather get this out of the way before Gunfrey first.”

Ashlyn held the door open for her and locked the door after her, and so they got in the lift, due to Ashlyn's knee, and set off towards the Tube station, where they'd separate, so the detective could instead grab a bus near the station.

“Okay, here we part,” Ali said checking her metro in the screens between the multitude, and smirked small at Ashlyn. “Don't snap and be a good girl.”

The detective snorted a laugh and rolled eyes, but had joy in them.

“You too, good luck and happy tailing. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!”

“Are you sure that's the right advice?” Ashlyn stopped in her tracks for a moment.

“You're right, don't do anything I would do.” Ali laughed and nodded.

“That's more like it!”

Right before turning the corner to head out of the metro station and towards the bus stop, Ashlyn turned around to get a last glance at Ali's dark long hair, smiling small before turning back to her destination with a cheerful, new spirit. Her birthday was being incredible so far.

  
  



	15. Step into investigation

**Chapter 15: Steps into investigation.**

Exmouth Market wasn't a street Ashlyn frequented. It was all the way in Farringdon, London, and not in her usual routes, but as soon as she stepped on it, she felt like she had left London. The street had a big amount of cafés, pastel-painted façades, and a basilica-like church that was gold, blue and brick. It was called, Ashlyn saw, the Church of Our Most Holy Redeemer, and as it had started to rain while she was in the bus, now it was enveloped by that air of mystery rain gave to her. Ashlyn luckily had grabbed her black umbrella, a huge contrast to Ali's purple one in the office, so she stayed dry as she walked past shops full of curious people, café tables and chairs, and youthful gents.

In that moment Ashlyn thought had she been able to taste a bit of salt in her tongue, and had there been a couple seagulls, she would have thought herself back in Cornwall, where she had some of the happiest memories of her childhood.

She almost missed Crossfire Publishing. The building door was next to a bakery and it had virtually nothing to stand out from the others. There was a sign with a list of offices, one of them being the one she was looking for, so she buzzed the bell and was let inside into a staircase she glared at before climbing with great help of her crutch and handrail. Her leg wasn't up for these things just yet.

Once she arrived at the top landing, there was a bespectacled man, about her same age, with wavy, shoulder-length hair and jeans with a waistcoat and a suit jacket.

“Hello,” he offered her a hand. “I'm Christian Fisher. Ashlyn, right?”

“That's right,” she shook her hand and he eyed her crutch. “It's fine, it's not a big deal.”

“Okay... well, come in,” he guided her through white double doors into a cluttered, open-plan space with walls covered in posters and bookshelves one next to the other covering an entire wall. A young woman with dark hair seemed to be the secretary, and Fisher asked her whether she'd like anything, but she declined, as she had already enjoyed a pleasant breakfast with Ali, and he asked for coffee. “Have a seat, please. So... who hired you? Daniel Chard? No, Michael Fancourt! Right?”

Ashlyn raised her eyebrows. She knew Fancourt, because he was a very famous writer and had just won a big prize with his latest book. The relationship he could have with someone called Daniel Chard and with Owen Quine was a mystery to her, but she made sure to appear surprised by her suggestion, and not by the fact that she didn't personally know those men nor understood their relationship with the Quines yet.

“Actually, it's Quine's wife. Leonora.” Now, it was Fisher who was astonished.

“That mousy woman? What's she hired a private detective for?”

“Mr Quine has been gone ten days.”

“Quine's disappeared?” Fisher was more and more astonished, and then confused, and Ashlyn could tell he wasn't expecting this. “But then... why did she send you to me?”

“Mrs Quine is quite sure you know where he is. You told him about a writer's retreat.”

“Bigley Hall, yes, but Quine won't be there,” he rolled eyes and snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “Even if he wanted to go, even if he paid to go, they wouldn't let him in because he's always stirring shit, and one of the women who runs the place hates him. She's never forgiven a review he wrote about her first novel. Wait, I'll call now...”

He called on speakerphone so Ashlyn could also listen, and in the meantime Fisher's secretary brought his coffee. Right as she left, a woman named Shannon answered the call and a short conversation, it was clear that Shannon hadn't seen him in at least a year, and that even if he came, he wouldn't be welcomed. She sounded pissed at Quine.

“Okay so if you were so sure there was no way he was there...” said Ashlyn, starting to feel annoyed. “Why didn't you tell Mrs Quine? It's all she wanted to know, you know?”

“So that's why she kept calling?” Fisher guffawed, and Ashlyn disliked him, just like she disliked men who seemed to believe themselves to be better, and their time to not be worth a poor middle aged woman's two minutes of questioning. “I thought Quine made her call me about _Bombyx Mori_ , get her to convince me to sort it out for him.”

“What's the problem with _Bombyx Mori_?” Ashlyn asked, pretending to know she had as much information as he did.

“Yeah, I thought he wanted to see whether there was a chance I'd publish it, it's the kind of stuff he'd do, get his wife to ring... But I can't afford court cases, so no way I'd ever publish that.”

Deciding she urged to change strategy, Ashlyn backtracked.

“That's Mr Quine's latest novel, right?”

“Yeah,” Fisher drank from his coffee. “It's odd he's disappeared. I thought the whole point of it was to stay and watch the fun, he's not the type to lose his nerve.”

“Have you ever published for him before?”

“No, never! He's done his last three or four books with Roper Chard. But I was at this party with his agent, Liz Tassel, months ago. She was a little drunk and told me she thought Roper Chard wouldn't be putting up with him much longer, so I offered to look at his next novel. Quine's a terrible writer, so bad he's good, you know? Anyway... _Hobart's Sin_ was very good, so I figured he still had something in him.”

Right then did she notice that she should've interrogated Mrs Quine more thoroughly, but she had just been too tired. This of coming to interviews knowing less than her interviewee was new and she disliked it terribly, feeling strangely vulnerable, exposed and uncomfortable.

“Did you read _Bombyx Mori_?”

“Yes, and Tassel fucked up!” he laughed, amused. “I got the copy Friday before last, and she must not have read it properly or something, 'cause she called me panicking saying there was a mistake and she sent the wrong manuscript and begging me to not read it and send it back. It was odd because Liz Tassel it's usually the kind of woman to make grown men shiver, but in this case she was panicking like I've never seen. I spent most of Saturday reading it. Has anyone told you what's in there? What he's done?”

“No,” Ashlyn admitted, cursing inwardly. “What is it?”

Fisher's smile faded and he finished his coffee.

“Some of London's top lawyers warned me not to disclose that.”

“Apart from Chard and Fancourt, who else is employing lawyers?”

“Only Chard, but if I were Owen I'd be more worried about Fancourt. He can be an evil bastard, and never forgets a grudge.”

“And Chard?”

“Daniel Chard's the CEO of Roper Chard. Quine screwed him over, I don't know how he thought he'd get away, but that's the stuff he does. He's incredibly arrogant, deluded... bloody bastard, Quine. I'm just surprised he thought he could do that to Chard, and think...” he pressed his lips together and smiled. “I'm a danger to myself. Let's just say that although what he's written couldn't be literally true, it's very see-through. Everyone's clearly recognizable, and he's fucked over plenty of people very cleverly, but very nastily, like Fancourt's early stuff. And it's so gore, filled with symbolism... you gotta have a tough stomach for it. Hasn't Leonora told you anything?”

“No.”

“Bizarre, she must know, I bet Quine doesn't stop talking about his books at home.”

“Mr Fisher, if you didn't know Quine was missing, then why did you think Chard or Fancourt would hire someone like me?”

“Don't know, I thought maybe... maybe they wanted to know if they could stop Quine, what was he planning to do with the book... or maybe they were planning a fight.”

“So you had so much interest to see me because you have something on Quine, or what?”

“I'm just nosy,” Fisher half-smiled.

Ashlyn stood up.

“Well, thanks then, if you hear from Mr Quine, please let me know,” she handed him one of her cards.

“Ashlyn M. Harris,” Fisher nodded, then pursed his lips as he walked her out the door. “I know that name for something other than detecting, do I?” the penny suddenly dropped.

“No idea.”

Ashlyn began walking back downstairs rather quickly, knowing it was a matter of time before...

“Bloody hell, you're the girl who stabbed her own father!”

Leonora Quine wasn't happy about the news, and even through the phone, she sounded anxious. They chatted, and she confessed he was sometimes in hotels, sometimes with other women, and in the way she said it with such resignation, Ashlyn felt even more saddened. She begged Ashlyn to find Quine, and suggested she asked Liz Tassel, because on another occasion she had found him at the Hilton, but didn't know which one. Liz wasn't taking Leonora's calls, and as she talked with Ashlyn, Leonora had to interrupt herself several times to admonish what clearly was a complicated daughter.

“Mrs Quine—,”

“Call me Leonora.”

“Leonora, what if he's hurt himself? We need to call the police, we'll find him faster.”

“No, no! Police wasn't happy last time when he appeared with a whore, and then Owen wasn't either, and- Orlando, stop it!”

“I understand Leonora, but police could get his picture everywhere in seconds...”

“I just want him home quietly, what's so complicated?” Leonora sighed, sounding desperate. “He's had time to calm down and come back!”

“All right, look... have you read your husband's newest novel?”

“I only read them when they're finished and have covers and all.”

“And has he told you about it home? Anything?”

“He doesn't like talking about work while— Orlando! Put it down!”

Ashlyn wasn't sure if she had hung up on purpose or not, but she checked her watch under her umbrella and knew she had to rush back to the office.


	16. We keep moving forward

**Chapter 16: We keep moving forward.**

Back at the office, Ashlyn scribbled on a post-it 'Print me a picture of Owen Quine, call Elizabeth Tassel to see if she'd talk to me real quick, & please look bombyx mori up for me, however's spelled -Ash.' she left the post it on Ali's keyboard, and as a possible client came in, she disappeared with it into the inner office. Right after the now newest client came Gunfrey, and when he left, Ashlyn finally came out into the outer office, worn-out. But her mood improved drastically when she saw Ali at her desk, munching a vegetables sandwich.

“Hey so I did as you asked,” Ali pointed to a corner of her desk, where there was an A4 photograph of Owen Quine's face. “Also, Elizabeth Tassel will see you today at five, apparently Fisher called her and she was just calling when I grabbed the phone. She hasn't got a clue where Quine is, but she was bossy and adamant to meet you. Also, Bombyx mori is Latin for silkworm.”

“A silkworm?”

“Yes, and as a fun fact, silkworms are boiled alive to get the silk from the cocoons. Not very nice, is it?”

“Gosh,” Ashlyn made a disgusted face and grabbed the picture, “well, that's the fabulous name Owen Quine picked for his latest novel, and judging by what Fisher had to say, he boiled a lot of people alive. I'll tell you in a minute,” she added, as Ali was about to ask, “how was your job outside today?”

“Great, we've got one more finished case, I already called to get it paid for tomorrow morning, and things are going in the right direction.” Ashlyn smiled proudly, making Ali blush. She was always caught off-ward with the detective's admiration.

“You'll be an incredible detective one day, Ali. Remember I said it first,” Ashlyn looked down at the photograph and snorted. “Please, how can anyone like a dude like this? He's at least sixty, his hair looks like it hasn't seen a brush in fifty years, his beard's a joke... besides, how did a man so large manage to go incognito this long? I'd see him from the Big Ben!”

Ali sniggered, shaking her head in disapproval.

“I imagine you had not much luck with Fisher?”

During the next few minutes, Ashlyn detailed her encounter with Fisher to Ali, who listened attentively, without interrupting once, her chocolate brown tiger eyes fixed on Ashlyn almost without blinking, framed by long, perfect dark eyelashes that managed to acquire the perfect shape and form and still look effortless.

At last, Ali was at a lose of words, but she agreed with Ashlyn that they better figure out what Elizabeth 'Liz' Tassel knew before they could do anything else.

When Ashlyn returned to her friend's house in Octavia Street, Wandsworth, she opened the door and was met by a judgemental glance from the Ellacotts' cat, a black panther named Walcott in honour of the Arsenal's forward. Both Ashlyn and Nick were huge fans of the Arsenal Football Club, and the cat's name was perhaps the only reason why Ashlyn had made a particular effort to be liked by the cat. Walcott sat licking his balls in the first step of the stairs, and he merely looked up at her for a moment before going back to his tasks.

“What a beautiful sight,” Ashlyn murmured with a smirk, putting her soaked umbrella in the stand and her coat in the rack before walking into the left room, where she heard voices. “Good evening!”

“Happy birthday!” Nick appeared, grinning as he gave her a bone-crushing hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I left so early I didn't have the chance.”

“Thanks, Nick,” Ashlyn chuckled. When he moved aside to check the dinner cooking in the kitchen, as he was the big chef in the house, Ashlyn was surprised to see that the person sitting next to her good friend Whitney on the sofa having a drink was no other than Heather O'Reilly, who she had last seen at her mother's funeral eleven years before.

Hao, as she was nicknamed, had been in a class a year below Christopher's and a year above Ashlyn's, and was in Ashlyn's youth soccer team in London whenever Ashlyn was there. Seven months before Christopher's death, the two had begun to date, Christopher's first and only girlfriend. Their romance had blossomed with surprising strength, and when Chris had died, Hao, who always treated Ashlyn with nothing but friendliness and kindness, made the long trip to Cornwall for the funeral and had been heartbroken, as far as Ashlyn could remember. She had hugged thirteen-year-old Ashlyn then like a big sister, and promised she'd always be a call away.

However, Ashlyn had never called. Just months later, when her father had been arrested and she had been visiting her mother at the hospital and under the care of her Uncle James, Hao had phoned her and even visited to make sure she was all right, but Hao was on the way to college, and couldn't afford to be away from London too much, not that Ashlyn would want her to do so. Hao reminded her of Chris, and with him their friendship had seemed to die, as she couldn't bring herself to call the older woman. They only saw each other once more, at Tammye Harris' funeral, but Hao had always emailed her in her birthday, every single year, and for New Year's Eve. Hao had invited her to her wedding two years before, but Ashlyn had been busy with the Navy, and limited herself to finally calling and speaking with her on the phone for two long hours, and when Ashlyn had been invalidated out of the Navy, Hao was the first to call, although due to work she was unable to visit, since she wasn't even in England. Hao was a soccer coach, and had been travelling a lot. Now, she had a little daughter, Ashlyn knew, as she had sent her a gift when she found out.

“Woah,” Hao grinned, getting up. “You've grown and changed so much! Look at your hair, it's flames!” her brown eyes fixed on Ashlyn as she moved around the coffee table closer to her, and Ashlyn's jaw dropped. Hao had also changed a lot, but still had the same warm expression and soft eyes that she affectionately remembered.

“What are you doing here? I thought the Liverpool hired you,” Ashlyn said full of surprise and astonishment.

“They did, but it's been years and I missed London. So when the Arsenal's Women's team made an offer...”

“You work for the Arsenal?!” Hao chuckled and nodded. “Woah,” Ashlyn grinned, “just like you always said you would. Chris would be proud.”

Heather smiled softly. Ashlyn had a feeling that the woman, at just fourteen years of age, had actually been in love with Chris. She had never thought that was possible, as she never took teenage love seriously, but Heather's honest heartbreak after his passing, the way she always remembered to call her and her mother on birthdays, special occasions and festivities, the way she had somehow taken care of Ashlyn from afar like Chris would have, and the way she frequently visited Chris and Tammye's graves and left flowers, told Ashlyn that perhaps she had underestimated their relationship.

“So, am I worth a hug?”

“Of course,” Ashlyn wrapped her strong arms around her and was happy to hug the woman, that was now somewhat shorter than Ashlyn. It had been so long, but the detective was surprised to feel that for once, seeing her didn't cause a pang inside. Perhaps she had finally achieved some level of healing, and now she actually looked forward to spending time with her.

“Like my surprise?” Whitney said hugging her friend afterwards.

“Love it,” Ashlyn beamed at both women. “Shall I get a drink? You're coming on Friday, right Hao?”

“If you don't mind, sure.”

“Why would I mind?”

The three sat down and Whitney added one more glass to the few little glasses that were on the coffee table, before refilling them with cognac.

“Well...” Heather half-shrugged. “Haven't seen you much these years. I thought you weren't interested in keeping... Chris' people around.”

Ashlyn nodded slowly.

“I wasn't, but I am now,” the detective shrugged. “I guess it's true time heals. And now you're a pro coach, happily married, right?”

“Chris would approve,” Hao assured with a nod. “Dave is a wonderful man. And you should meet our daughter, Jane. I named her after your mother, I hope you don't mind?”

It was safe to say that Ashlyn was very much caught off-guard, and she looked at her in complete astonishment, forgetting to bring her glass the rest of the way to her lips. Her mother's name had been Tammye Jane Habovick, then Harris after marriage. She had never changed it back to her maiden name, because she said that way she could always keep a part of her children and loved in-laws with her, even post the divorce that had followed Curtis's imprisonment.

“You did?” Ashlyn chuckled. “Woah... it's wonderful. Sweet.”

“I was worried you'd prefer I had left it for your daughter.”

“Well, since that won't be happening anytime in the near future and who knows, I may only have boys... I'm glad you used it. Honestly.”

“So how was your birthday day?” Hao asked, with honest interest. “You're a celebrity now!”

“Not so much yet, thankfully,” Ashlyn half-smiled. “It was great, Ali, she's my assistant and friend, she brought me a basket with Yorkshire beer. Left it in the office for the long days, but I should bring some tomorrow, it's so good... and she also added a bunch of Cornish biscuits, so I should definitely bring some of those here.”

“She's such a sweetie,” Whitney commented, and her husband appeared. “Heard that, Love? Ali gave Ashlyn her hometown's beer and Cornish biscuits!”

“That tops the questionable cake we made,” Nick commented with a smirk.

“You made me a cake?” Ashlyn grinned. “Guys! You didn't have to!”

“We do it with pleasure, not every day one turns thirty, uh?” Whitney kissed her cheek. “And Hao brought you something, you should open!”

Hao had given her a bottle of Scottish Whiskey, knowing Ashlyn loved strong drinks, and they drank part of it after an enjoyable dinner, while munching some delicious cake. At the end of the night, Hao went home promising to be there on Friday, and Ashlyn, who always felt a bit sad on her birthdays and other big, happy occasions, went to her room and after putting on her pyjamas, sat on the window bench, that served as a comfortable seat cushioned and with pillows, and hugged her knees as she looked over the backyard garden, up towards the Thames and, in the far distance, Cornwall. Her fingers absentmindedly traced her brother's bracelet in her arm, and she felt a familiar dampness in her eyes.

“You never got to be thirty.”

The next day, Ali had acquired for two pounds a copy of _The Balzac Brothers_ , another of Owen Quine, and she had read it overnight, which surprised and amazed her boss. Ashlyn spent her early morning reading it while Ali did outside job, and found the style ornate and florid, but the story Gothic and surreal. In the story, two brothers were locked inside a vaulted room while the corpse of their older brother decayed slowly in the corner. In between drunken arguments, they attempted to co-author an account of their decomposing brother's life. One of the brothers was constantly palpating his aching balls, and after fifty pages, Ashlyn threw the book to the trash basket next to Ali's desk.

The rain outside had become a rightful storm, and Ashlyn frowned lamenting Ali was outside, before grabbing her phone and texting her.

**'Come back to the office, I don't want you getting sick with this rain.'**

Then she googled the news in her phone, and saw there were the traditional floods in Cornwall. Worried, she sat on the sofa and proceeded to call her cousin, Corey, who was the closest she had to a brother now. Corey Habovick was the eldest child of the uncle and aunt that had pretty much raised Ashlyn and Chris every moment her their parents failed at doing so. Corey's Dad, Uncle James, was Ashlyn's Mum's eldest brother, and his Mum was Aunt Debborah, a breast cancer survivor who had treated Ashlyn and Chris like own children, even when she had three of her own, plus three grandchildren.


	17. Kathryn Kent

**Chapter 17: Kathryn Kent.**

Corey managed the one store in St. Mawes that sold everything sea related and also was in charge of the kayak trips, renting kayaks, planning routes and taking tourists around. He also sold fishing equipment, surfing equipment, and all other sea-related sports' stuff. He was married to Brittany, his high school sweetheart, was a year younger than Ashlyn, and was father of Ashlyn's favourite children in the world, her Godchildren Jenson and Raya, who were only toddlers. Like the rest of her extended family, Corey had phoned and texted on her birthday every year, and now he attended Ashlyn's call within seconds of waiting.

“Hello girl! How are the thirties feeling?” Ashlyn smiled.

“You tell me next year.”

“Oh, wait!” there was a bit of movement. “Aunty Ash! Happy birthday!” Ashlyn beamed hearing her nephew, aged two.

“Thank you sweetheart!”

“When you coming?” Jenson demanded to know through his father's phone.

“Really soon, I promise. Can I speak with Daddy for a bit? Give Mummy and Raya big kisses from me, okay? I love you.”

“Wov you too!”

“What's up?” Corey asked. “You always need at least ten minutes more with the kid?”

“I'd happily have them, but I'm really busy. I was just seeing about the floods in the news and got worried about you all. Everyone all right?”

“Oh, yeah, well I had to shut down water sports for the time being, but thankfully we're okay. This is the reason why I've got five steps leading up to the shop, to keep it safe. And everyone else is fine as well, we text constantly, no one's taking the road. Is it raining in London too?”

Ashlyn turned to check the window.

“Flooding. Well, I've got to go back to work, but please stay safe Corey, and give my love to everyone.”

“Will we see you for Thanksgiving?”

“I don't know,” Ashlyn shrugged. “But I'll be there for the holidays for sure.”

“Will Beth be coming?” her family disliked Beth in a way they could never dissimulate, although the detective couldn't swear that they actually tried.

“I left her,” Ashlyn said. “Wedding's cancelled.”

“Oh! Shit, I'm sorry, what happened?”

Ashlyn checked her watch and pursed her lips, shrugging as she pressed her phone more against her ear.

“I got sick of her stupidity. It's fine, it was over a month ago, actually... we'll talk soon, I promise.”

“Okay. Love you!”

The day before Elizabeth Tassel's visit had made Ashlyn all the more curious about the case. The publisher had an old decrepit dog who puked and pooped everywhere, and she lived in a big house with not one but two servants. She was tall, of around sixty, with plain features, and very bossy. She was also possibly dying, judging by the horrible coughs she had, and that didn't keep her from smoking the entire interview.

Tassel had been furious about Leonora's intention that she'd pay Ashlyn, and declared Quine was no longer her client. It took Ashlyn about ten minutes to realize Tassel was a bully with her servants, but she wasn't intimidated by the agent, for two main reasons. One, her own mother had, despite her faults, been young and openly adoring, and two, Ashlyn sensed that people who needed to intimidate were in fact very afraid, vulnerable and damaged, and this was all just a façade. The dog, the many old photographs... they gave her the feeling that the publisher was actually a sentimental.

The publisher had sacked the writer, but was unsure about whether she had told him so when he disappeared. She explained things had gotten very heated at the River Café as they had dinner, and he made sure it was all very public and dramatic. Tassel was hoping Daniel Chard would sue Quine, and she hadn't had contact with the writer since their fight. Between heavy coughing, Tassel managed to explain that she never thought _Bombyx mori_ was Quine's best book, that he forced her to pick it up selfishly when she was very sick with a flu and high fevers, and on a weekend that she had wanted to go out on a trip she was very excited about, she had finally gave in to Quine's insistent calls for opinions on the book, that she hadn't read yet, and to get him off her back, she skim-read it, and thought it was an improvement from his usual bullshit, with lots of Gothic and perverse sex, everything very dark. She only glanced at a grotesque and silly ending, but because she hadn't read it properly, she didn't tell him he couldn't get away publishing that, as she otherwise would have.

Between other things, Tassel mentioned to Ashlyn how Daniel is strange and very touchy, and Michael is the nastiest of men, and that's a bit what Quine said in the book. Apparently, the writer thought himself a genius who took pride in causing offence. Since Tassel didn't really read it properly, she told him it was a good book, and she sent two copies, one to Jerry Waldegrave, who was Owen Quine's editor at Roper Chard, and another to Christian Fisher, because Quine only writes in old electric typewriters, and is remarkably ignorant about technology. The reason she sent it to two publishers was because even though no publisher was nicer than Jerry, he had lately lost patience with Quine and his tantrums, even more since his last book barely sold, so she sent it to Fisher just in case.

It was that evening when Tassel realized the mistake she had done, when she actually read the book. She panicked, tried to keep Jerry and Fisher from reading it, then called Owen, but he was delighted and wanted to celebrate at the River Café, which was when, elated, he told her what a brave and marvellous thing he had done, talking about film adaptations until she told him his book was vile, malicious and unpublishable, and then he began screaming. Tassel tried, from her small weekend getaway with one of her authors in Cornwall, to do things right with the book, trying to stop people from reading it, and then on Sunday Jerry was disgusted and furious and she promised to do everything she could to stop Quine, but Jerry was also furious she sent it to Fisher as well.

The fact that Quine marched with all of his things was explained because according to Tassel, he threatened with self-publishing it, so maybe he went to do that. Then, Ashlyn learned from Tassel that Quine had a girlfriend who was one of his students, self-published, who wrote erotic fantasy novels. Tassel contacted her to frighten her off, keep her from publishing Quine, but she could never get a hold of her, however, Tassel was willing to give Ashlyn the contact information. The girlfriend was called Kathryn Kent. Shamelessly, Quine brought her to parties while Leonora was home taking care of Orlando.

Tassel knew Quine well, as they were friends in their youth. So she knew what she was talking about when it came to him, and had assured Ashlyn that he expected a manhunt, attention, but wouldn't commit suicide nor otherwise hurt himself. Apparently over twenty years before his first disappearing act made it to the press, so he hoped for that glory since.

The reunion had ended with Ashlyn accepting Tassel's petition of assuring those she could that Tassel hadn't really read the book before sending it out, because of how much damage the damn book had done to her, so Ashlyn could attempt to fix her some.

As she thought of all of this that had happened the afternoon before, Ashlyn remained on the sofa by the window, wondering who the hell was going to pay her now, and why did she agree to those things, but she knew the answer. She had a soft spot for people like Leonora, and she couldn't help it. Ali would ask at hotels about Quine, show his picture around, but Ashlyn had a feeling that she wasn't going to find him, and she couldn't run surveillances under this weather. Her knee wasn't prepared for the weather, and if she got hit badly due to a fall or something, it'd mean another, more complicated surgery.

Therefore, Ashlyn spent the day doing assistant stuff, paperwork, those things. Ali came and went, and Ashlyn received clients and people looking to hire her, that were added in the waiting list without a second thought. Ashlyn was looking forward to getting Saturdays free, but so far she worked every Saturday, although without opening the office for anyone. Often, Ali would join her to help out, even more when she had just been discharged from the hospital, and they'd spend four or five hours doing extra work.

The next morning, on Thursday, taking advantage of the sudden sunny day, Ashlyn went to Kathryn Kent's flat, but in the darkness of the building's corridor and due to her height, Kathryn confused her with someone else and, shouting and cursing, called her a bastard while punching her.

“I'll never forgive you, never, Pippa's going to fucking kill you...!”

“Stop!” Ashlyn used her hands to stop the woman, who had barely hurt her. Recognizing a woman's voice, she stared surprised.

“Oh! Who are you? What do you want?”

“Not even sorry, really?” Ashlyn rolled eyes. “My name's Ashlyn Harris and I'm a private detective hired to find writer Owen Quine, who's been missing for twelve days now. I'm told you're friends.”

“No, we're not,” Kathryn Kent snapped.

“Aren't you Kathryn Kent?”

“I am, but you tell her that. She's welcome to him.”

“Any idea where he's gone?”

“I don't give a shit.”

She went to close the door, but Ashlyn held it open and looked pleadingly at her.

“Please, Mr Quine's been missing since he had a row with his agent about his latest book. I was wondering—,”

“I don't give a damn about his book, haven't read it,” she looked very hysterical.

“Mrs Kent—,”

“Ms.”

“Ms Kent, Mr Quine's wife says a woman called at his house looking for him. You look like the woman she described me.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You didn't go looking for him at his house?”

“I don't know where he is! I don't know anything!”

And she slammed the door in Ashlyn's face.

When the detective returned to the office, Ali had found a blog about her, and Ashlyn checked it while telling her assistant all about the encounter with Ms Kent. The amateurish web page was called 'My Literary Life' and it had a ten years outdated photograph of Kent. The posts were arranged by date like a diary.

“She's got a erotic fantasy series called the Melina Saga, available for download on Kindle,” Ali explained, standing with a mug of tea.

The poor younger woman had arrived the evening before soaked from head to toe despite her umbrella, and Ashlyn had had to lend her her own inner office so get rid of her clothes, that Ashlyn had dried with the bathroom's hands dryer after giving Ali a blanket and her own long coat to cover herself. The idea that the attractive young woman was almost nude working in her office for half an hour while Ashlyn managed to dry at least her trousers and blouse had made Ashlyn's sleep harder, and the knowledge that she had been only in her underwear under her coat made her blush as she put it on in the morning. Not for the first time, the detective had to remind herself that her assistant was about to marry, and a man, nevertheless.

“I'm never reading another shit book of those. In fact, if anyone gifts me a book for Christmas, I'll burn it,” Ashlyn commented while reading the blog, making her laugh, which immediately made her smirk.

“Well you'll be interested to know she writes a lot about Quine. He's 'The Famous Writer', TFW for short. I deciphered it.”

“Congrats!”

“In this not too old entry, look,” Ali leaned over her shoulder to point at the screen, and Ashlyn's attention was trapped by her perfume and the swing of Ali's silver necklace, as Ali's long dark hair caressed her cheek and caused her shivers. “Great talk with TFW about Plot and Narrartive tonight which are of course not the same thing. For those wondering: plot is what happens, narrative is how much you show your readers and how you show it to them,” Ali was reading. Ashlyn, instead of stare at the screen, stared at her soft red lips moving, her long, mascara-coated lashes, and the movement of her brown eyes. “An example from my second Novel 'Melina's Sacrifice'. As they made their way towards de Forest of Harderell, Lendor raised his handsome profile to see how near they were to it. His well-maintained body, honed by horseback-riding and archery skills—,”

“Okay stop,” Ashlyn cleared her throat, looking back at the screen, and Ali giggled.

“Getting horny Ms Harris?”

“You wish,” Ashlyn half-chuckled. “I hope you weren't up to anything naughty reading this while I was gone, though.” Ali laughed harder, shaking her head.

“I'll read you something more interesting. August 10th, she says; so TFW calls and he can't see me (again). Family problems. What can I do except say that I understand? I knew it would be complicated when we fell in love. I can't be openly explicit on this but I'll just say he's stuck with a wife he doesn't love because of a Third Party. Not his fault. Not the Third Party's fault. The wife won't let him go even if it's the best thing for everyone so we're locked into what sometimes feels like it's Purgatory.”

“Third Party's the daughter.”

“That's what I thought. And here,” Ali scrolled down, a hand on Ashlyn's shoulder and another on the computer mouse, her tea on her desk. “The Wife knows about me and pretends not to. TFW says she's always put the Third Party before everything else including Him. And below, she adds...”

“I've tried to call it off and what can I say? The Heart has its reasons, which Reasons don't know,” Ashlyn read for her, needing to focus on something else but Ali's closeness. “And now tonight I'm crying over him all over again for a brand new Reason. He tells me he's nearly finished his Masterpiece, the book he says it's the best he's ever written. He hopes I'll like it, says I'm in it. That's special. That's different. Can't help loving TFW.” Ashlyn took de deep breath, and looked down at the comments.

Pippa2011 said 'what would you say if I told you he'd read a bit to me?'. Kathryn replied saying he wouldn't read her any, asking if she was joking, and Pippa2011 had answered 'you wait'.

“I don't know why women do this...” Ali shook her head, standing with her arms crossed over her chest. “Falling for married people. What do they expect to gain? If they cheat on their husbands for you, they'll do it to you too!”

“Pippa... Kathryn said someone called Pippa wanted to kill m—Owen, when she thought I was him.”

“She really needs to check her eyesight. You look nothing like him. He was ugly as hell.”

“Thank you,” Ashlyn half smiled.

“Wait, but now that you mention it... this is from shortly before he went missing,” Ali scrolled up to show Ashlyn.

'The first time I ever met TFW he said to me “Your not writing properly unless someone is bleeding, probably you”. As follower’s of this Blog know I’ve Metaphorically opened my veins both here and also in my novels. But today I feel like I have been Fatally stabbed by somebody who I had learned to trust.

‘O Macheath! thou hast robb’d me of my Quiet – to see thee tortur’d would give me Pleasure.’'

“The Beggar's Opera, by John Gay,” Ashlyn whispered.

“Erudite,” Ali looked surprised.

“Public school,” Ashlyn chuckled. “And here Pippa comments 'I'll turn the handle on the fucking rack for you, Kath'. What a handful.”

“On another post, she hints that she works in some facility with tightened security, aside from being a writer. No idea what it is, but her last entry says that her beloved sister died to breast cancer. Again, Pippa commented sending her love. Those two sound like real friends.”

“Why do people do this? Exhibit their lives?”

“The unexamined life isn't worth living, didn't Plato say?”

“Yes, but this isn't examination, just exhibition...”

“Talking about exhibition, I forgot! Christian Fisher called when you were gone, and wants to see if you'd write a book about your life. The Navy, your father... he's dying to publish it,” Ali had an annoyed expression that told Ashlyn she thought it was stupid of him to make such offers.

“Sure, I'll write a book and on the first page, you know what I'll write?” Ashlyn stood up to grab her mug and sip from it. “I'll give a step-by-step on how to stab your father so hard he loses his stomach.”

Ali looked surprised at this, but knew Ashlyn coped using dark humour, so she wasn't offended. She offered her biscuits and sat down at her chair.

“By the way, how's therapy going?”

“Got a session tomorrow,” Ashlyn murmured while she munched. “Shit! Tomorrow! What time's the celebration?”

“Don't worry, Ash,” Ali said softly. “I'll take you straight from work.”

“Okay,” Ashlyn nodded. “I got my appointment very early, so I'll come here after it.”

“You can take the day off if you wish.”

“We'll see how it goes. You are giving me the day off?” Ashlyn looked amused.

“Yes, because I know if you feel guilty about leaving me with all the work you'll come even if the session leaves you in misery,” Ali half-smiled. “Why are you having it tomorrow though? I thought it was on Saturdays.”

“Her daughter's getting married this Saturday out of town, so she asked if we could change my appointment, squeezed me in a day sooner.”

“Oh, that's good.”

“Sucks that it coincides with the birthday festivities, but...” Ashlyn shrugged. “You couldn't have known. I promise I'll do my best effort to be in the fanciest of moods. And we got a last minute guest.”

“Who?”

“Heather O'Reilly, aka the coach of Arsenal's Women's Football Club,” Ashlyn sounded so smug that it made Ali snigger. “She was my brother's girlfriend, the only one he ever had. They dated for a bunch of months until he passed, and I haven't seen her much since. Heather was working in Liverpool, but on Tuesday night she surprised me at Whitney's! They're friends too, we all were from football. Heather's Dad used to play with Curtis. Much better father than mine.”

“Must be exciting then,” Ali was happy to hear Ashlyn be enthusiastic about the idea of dinner with her favourite people and some new strangers to welcome with open arms. “And you shouldn't be worried about your mood. Those people love you, Ashlyn. None of us would judge you, not even the friends of mine that you don't know, and certainly not Kyle.”

“Thanks, Ali,” Ashlyn winked. “You're a great friend. Which reminds me...” Ashlyn had a sudden idea, and grabbed her mobile, phoning Culpepper.

She remembered at once that months before, he had commented that his cousin Nina worked for Roper Chard, so Ashlyn, after a short conversation, got him to put both women in contact. Ashlyn and Ali had figured out Roper Chard had an anniversary party on Saturday night, and they wanted to go. Since Ashlyn had very recently given Culpepper a good case, he agreed to give her Nina's number.

“I don't think Nina's gay,” Ashlyn told Ali, as she explained the deal. “So no way she'll squeeze one of us as a partner, but if you can pretend I put that ring on your finger, we can pretend we're old friends of Nina and she's graciously inviting us over.”

“Oh, I could also be a big fan of _Hobbart's Sin_. I've read it entirely by now, so I can talk about it,” Ali commented. Ashlyn was amazed by her enthusiasm, and nodded with half a smile before phoning Nina.

Nina Lascelles was more than amused and enthusiastic about the whole deal, and assured Ashlyn an LGBT couple would be welcomed, so after agreeing on meeting at seven thirty on Saturday evening, Ashlyn hung up and she and Ali focused on what their story would be. Because it was easier if one of them could go with the truth, Ashlyn told Ali all about her story with Lisbeth, so they'd pretend Ali was her and, for the sake of the story, that Ali was of Ashlyn's same age, because it was possible people knew Ashlyn's family history, hence know she was way older than Ali, and so it'd look very illegal to say they started dating when Ashlyn was in her freshmen year of University, a time in which Ali hadn't finished middle school. They had to connect their stories, and as they did so they realized people might now about Ashlyn's engagement to Lisbeth, which had been on the press.

“Okay, I can take off the ring for one evening,” Ali shrugged. “We'll pretend we just started dating, and because I'm a huge fan you romantically decided to do everything in your power to get me there. What if they know you're a detective?”

“Chances are they know, but we can just make it a coincidence.”

“Coincidences don't exist.”

“They're not detective level of smart. It'll be fine.”


	18. Make you proud

**Chapter 18: Make you proud.**

Through 30 years of life, Ashlyn had never liked psychologists or therapists, thinking of them as people who, when you least expected and without permission, got into your head to find information you weren't even conscious of having. But on Friday morning she saw herself sitting with her therapist in the latter's office, telling her all about her birthday, her brother, and her father, who was still in prison, and would be for a few more years. She vented it all out, spoke angrily of her mother's suicide, not for the first time, and at last left feeling like she had been punching a bag for an hour and a half; very relaxed but very tired.

This made her fall asleep in the inner office's sofa during a good half an hour, that Ali spent working outside to give her some privacy, and also because there were surveillances to do. With other cases to take care of and the party not being until the next evening, the Quine case was put on pause and Ali focused on finishing a few others to get them a few paychecks that week. Her future husband, Eric, had limited patience and didn't like the idea that she worked until Saturday afternoons like, in his words, a slave, for a miserable salary. He had more than once insinuated Ashlyn took advantage of her, and that Ali was too stupid and naïve to realize and demand better for herself. Ali had replied demanding better for herself to her fiancé, who had blushed heavily, falling in his own trap.

When Ashlyn finally woke up, it took her solid two minutes to realize she was just in her office in Denmark Street, tucked with the blanket she usually kept in that sofa and that Ali had seemingly used to keep her warm before leaving, instead of being in a ship in the Atlantic, as she had been dreaming of.

The afternoon before, thinking of her birthday celebration the next day, she had accompanied Nick to the hairdresser and gotten her hair, that had grown in the month and a half since she had gotten it shaven off until now it reachd her jaw in perfectly falling waves like a surfer, tidied out, cutting the very tips and introducing some blonde highlights Ali had complimented the minute she entered the office in the morning. With the current length of her hair, Ashlyn had picked a habit of passing her fingers through it, shoving her hair backwards only to then enjoy feeling the frontal short strands fall over her temples or forehead in a bit of a mess. She enjoyed the freedom short hair provided, the lack of knots, the ease with which she got it done every morning, and in some way, it felt like shutting the door on Lisbeth for good. Lisbeth would've never approved the cut.

So feeling great with herself, Ashlyn stretched and went to the bathroom, making sure her soft make-up was in order and her eyebrows didn't look too savage, before adjusting her dark blue shirt inside her dark grey suit trousers and going to Ali's desk to continue working. To her surprise, her assistant was right there, working quietly. And to Ashlyn's further surprise, she had a very small cut in her lower lip, right in the side, too tiny to really make a big difference, but recent enough to have swollen her lip a little.

And Ali was very obviously trying to hide it, smiling at Ashlyn while dissimulating pressing her cheek against her palm, where a tissue hid.

“Good nap?” Ali asked cheerfully.

“Who did that to you?” Ashlyn asked, petrified, starting to feel her blood boil.

“What? It's nothing, I bit my lip, don't worry...”

“Don't worry? I'm your boss and friend, and that constitutes an injury in the work place, which immediately makes it my business too. Let me see,” Ashlyn leaned and softly put her hand on Ali's chin, tilting her face to the side a little and fixing her eyes on the cut. Ali felt her ears grow warm at the close examination. “Should heal on its own at least...”

“I know, which is why I'm not making a big deal of it.”

“What happened?”

“I was just... I was at Carter's company, you know, pretending to work there so I could spy on that employee who only might be acting naughty,” Ali explained. “Well the employee... I don't know what gave me away, I'm so sorry Ashlyn, I fucked-up—,”

Ashlyn had noticed this was frequent on Ali. Every single time she was mistaken, every single time she did something not completely 100% perfectly, every time she got nervous, she started blurting out apologies and throwing every blame of the world on her with incredible harshness.

“Alexandra,” Ashlyn said gently, fixing her eyes on hers and putting a soft hand on her knee, “please tell me what happened. It's all right, you're an assistant, you don't have to do a detective's job, you were just taking care of that because of my knee. You won't be fired. I won't be angry at you. You'll still be the best employee I've ever had. So please.”

Ali took a deep breath and nodded.

“Somehow the employee realized I was spying on him, and he slapped me, then went and quit his job. Carter was furious at me, but he didn't touch me, I bit my lip when the other guy slapped me. Carter fired us.” Ali looked so guilty and saddened that it broke Ashlyn's heart.

“Okay,” Ashlyn nodded slowly, “that's okay. You're here now, that's what matters. Are you hurt any other way? Did he slap you too hard? Want some ice? I'll go get you some ice, it'll help with that swelling.” She wasn't using a mocking tone, which astonished Ali, because she knew Eric would have, like most people. She was genuinely worried and concerned and caring, and she was speaking so softly and so gently and so caring, and she saw guilt in Ashlyn's eyes.

“I'm not going to sue you, Ashlyn.”

“You think that worries me?” Ashlyn frowned, opening the mini fridge to see if they had anything like ice. She found a can of Doom Bar that was pretty cold and gently pressed it on Ali's lip, so gently she barely felt it, just the cold relief. “My friend got slapped at work. I'm fucking furious, but not with you,” Ashlyn sighed, shaking her head, “I shouldn't have put you in that situation. You're bloody good at your job, but this isn't in the contract, and I should've known things could get dangerous... he could've done something worse, and then... fuck, I'd never forgive myself if...” she looked genuinely distressed, so Ali put a hand over hers.

“I'm okay. What could've happened didn't happen.” Ashlyn nodded and smiled small.

“I would've loved it if you nicked him in the groin though. You have my permission for next time a guy is rude.” Ali chuckled, and Ashlyn's hand followed her lip movement to keep applying the cold relief. “I'll call Carter. He owes us six hundred pounds now.”

“But I screwed it up, he lost an employee because of me.”

“He lost an employee because he was so stupid and untrustworthy to suspect of a good employee and hire someone to spy him, which is borderline illegal. I warned him all of this could happen when he hired us, but he insisted, so I added a clause in the contract saying if any of this happened it should be taken in account that we warned him and we reject responsibility on it, and therefore, he should assume full responsibility and still pay. He signed that, I've got a copy, and if he doesn't pay I won't sue him, I'll expose him big and nasty. Besides, you got injured because of his stupidity, he's about to hear me proper. You don't worry about a thing, you've done a fabulous job and I'm sure this was just one of those times in which someone else is just a little smarter than we thought.”

“Have you ever screwed up a job?”

“Tons of times,” Ashlyn shrugged. “And you always have to remember, no matter what, the sun will come up tomorrow, another day will come. Just because you fuck up, the world won't end. It will if you die, so that's the one thing you always have to make a priority, staying a life after a long day of work. Although I don't think this was really your fault, but... hell, I fucked up so much in my first year in the Navy, I'm surprised I passed the military education with honours.” She snorted a laugh, shaking her head.

Her words were very meaningful to Ali, and when Ashlyn retired the can from her lip, she stood up. Ali was still a little nervous about what had happened, a little unsure, and afraid of disappointing Ashlyn, but she knew that Ashlyn didn't care about the job as much as she cared about her.

“I'm still sorry about the job. I don't want you to stop assigning them to me just because I failed this one.”

“You did not fail. Your assignment was to find-out whether this employee was good or not, and you did. He was doing nothing wrong in the company but he's got a dangerous temper, done.”

“You know what I mean, Ashlyn,” Ali insisted. “Look, I love going out there. I love getting out of the desk. And desk job, I'm happy to do it if that's what you need of me, I just want to be useful to you and the agency above it all and if that's what you need that's what I'll be happy doing, but when you said I'd be a good detective one day, and you were putting me in courses... I come here thinking all I'm doing will prepare me for that, thinking that one day you'll take me as your partner, when you think I'm ready and when you can afford that, and we'll hire someone else to do the paperwork or split it between us. And I don't want that to crash just because of this. I don't want you to think I don't have what it takes.”

Ashlyn pursed her lips in thought and nodded slowly, sitting on the sofa.

“Ali, in this job, we have to be very humble people, okay? And I don't mean admitting when we're wrong, I mean admitting we're not God, or Superman. We're human beings, we make mistakes, we can't always do everything right or survive every situation. One thing is getting hurt doing things in the way you thought was safest and most prudent, and another very different is stupidly get hurt out of being reckless. Recklessness is not bravery. I don't want anyone here going out and being daring and reckless with the excuse that it's for the duty, that's something to make me bloody furious. But I'm not going to be furious if you're doing your job, you're doing things the way you honestly think is best, and you make a human mistake out of lack of experience, knowledge, or simply having a silly moment. But if you want to be my partner for real, then I need you to humbly admit you're not me, not to me, but to yourself, and I don't want you to pretend you are like me because you're not. You and I can never be put in the same box to do the same jobs with the same success rate and the same safety guarantees. I have over a decade of experience, most of it fighting with guns in the sea, you were a secretary in charge of paperwork until a month and a half ago. I will put myself under certain risks, assume certain dangers, risk my neck more... with the utter knowledge that I was trained for worst. You, on the other hand, will not, and I won't consent any attempts of trying to be a hero and do everything I'd do, okay? You're a civilian. I'm a war veteran. We'll give very different things to this agency, and when I assume things more dangerous than I'll let you even feel, I don't want you to feel less, just different, but what you give to this agency, even when it seems silly stuff like paperwork, you need to know it's very very valued, and needed, and that this agency needs you. Like a football team, you may not be in a starter position all the time, but that doesn't mean you're less valuable, you're here because all you give, on and off the field, is necessary for us, even making tea. Is that clear?”

“Yes, yeah, of course,” Ali smiled small. She felt touched, although her insecurity hadn't completely vanished.

“With that said... I am going to start taking more street work from you—,”

“But Ash!”

“Hear me out,” Ashlyn said calmly. “You don't put an eighteen year old soldier who just enlisted and hasn't completed their training in the first line of battle in Afghanistan in their first week, do you?” Ali shook her head. “Exactly. I did it with you a little because I was in the hospital, still needing to keep our boat afloat, and I had to demand things off you I otherwise would've never considered. But now I'm better. Now, I'm even climbing stairs at times. My tendons and ligaments have gotten stronger and I can spend more time on my feet than two, three weeks ago, so it's unnecessary and absurd to keep giving you my job in its totality. It has nothing to do with what has happened today, I was already going to tell you this, I just kept forgetting, okay?”

“Fine, but what about my training?”

“You've been here for less than a couple months and you've already done more than I'd ever expect an assistant to do. You've proven you've got promising skills, you're trustworthy, hard-working, brave, smart, and determined, all of those very valued qualities, not to mention your incredible driving skills, and I want to keep exploring those things and training those things, taking advantage of empowering the things you already have, inherently. I don't need you to be a cop or a soldier, I need you to be Ali Krieger, because that's more than good enough and exactly what we need. So you'll keep doing office job because I need you to, we'll split it and until I can be hundred percent back, you'll still see plenty of street work, I promise. Once I recover completely, you'll come with me like we did when you first came, you'll learn on the job, and I'll try to take you with me as often as possible, but very often I'll need you to stay here and deal with people coming and going, paperwork, research... and once you're ready, give it a year, maybe a bit more, then we can talk about hiring a third person so you can focus on being a junior detective. I guess you could try to get your own private detective license in... five, six years perhaps. We'd need to get you in some courses and specific stuff for you to be licensed, but I'd be willing to push you forward. And then you'd have your own cases separated from mine, and I guess we could have a couple assistants...” Ashlyn puffed. “But it's still years for that, and we'd need a bigger office, so let's just focus on not losing this one for now, uh?”

Ali's eyes got glassy and she suddenly beamed so big, and her eyes got so shiny, Ashlyn wished with all of her heart that she had told her this sooner. She had no idea the prospective, that for Ashlyn was as stressful as it was exciting, of becoming a fully licensed private detective in five or six years, made her so happy and joyful as she looked. And then in a matter of seconds, Ali had thrown herself in her arms and was crushing her ribs.

“I won't disappoint you,” Ali murmured, emotional. “I promise, you're gonna be so proud.”

“I already am,” Ashlyn reassured her, smiling and patting her back. “Make yourself proud and happy Ali, and I'll be proud and happy. Do this for you. Not for anyone else.”

  
  



	19. Dirty thirty

**Chapter 19: Dirty thirty.**

Just for once, they closed the office a bit early and Ali walked with Ashlyn towards the Tottenham, strolling without a hurry and chatting and laughing a little, releasing from the day's stress. Ali's lip looked much better and Ashlyn had during the day visited Carter at his company and shouted so badly that when she returned to Denmark Street, her voice was still a bit hoarse for another hour. But she got the money they were owed, and discharged her anger against the man until he threatened to call security.

Even though Ashlyn's heart still ached for her ex-fiancée, she had to admit, at least to herself, that she was attracted to Ali in ways that didn't make her conscience feel very clear, but she vowed to herself not to act on it; she'd never forgive herself if she made Ali feel uncomfortable by ogling her, making certain comments or being too affectionate. She would admire and appreciate Ali in the same way she did with the most exquisite art pieces in the museum; from the distance, with manners and respect, without disturbing or disrupting it, without being too vocal about it, and with reverence and dedication. That was, in retrospect, the way in which Ali deserved to be treated. Her love for Lisbeth and their relationship had been raw, like a knife violently reaching your heart and making you bleed copiously, had been overly passionate, an all or nothing. If Lisbeth was a ship, Ashlyn was a giant moving over it knowing that one wrong step would cause both their sinking. The friendly relationship she pretended to build with Ali, however, was more the type she had had with the ships in which she had sailed in the Navy, or with the ocean when she surfed. She'd be conscious of the dangers, but she'd be respectful to Ali, committed to their friendship, she'd let Ali make her feel safe and also be the one to reassure the assistant she wouldn't let her be damaged, and not push too much where danger could be smelled, and if she gave Ali her best, Ali would not let her sink and drown.

“So, what pushed you to invite your friends?” Ashlyn asked with a smirk. “I mean, I know everyone tends to invite their own people, that's what parties are about, but I never took you for the one who doesn't ask.”

Ali blushed, but pressed her lips into a small smile as she saw Ashlyn wasn't annoyed, but amused.

“I figured otherwise the group would seem like a bunch of octogenarians, it needed flesh blood to look more juvenile,” Ali teased jokingly. Ashlyn made a face of mock offence and they laughed together.

“Okay tell me about your friends!”

“Well, Kelley O'Hara's Dad is an Irish veteran from Afghanistan, he was in the RAF, so I imagined you guys would have some things in common. Both Kelley and Christen Press have been my friends for ages, we played football together in high school. She came to London after meeting her husband, who's a Londoner, but she keeps her own surname, and they're both paramedics, but she was on night shifts last week, so she was free for evenings this week.”

“Woah, a paramedic,” Ashlyn whistled. “Impressive.”

“She doesn't have much Irish accent anymore, but her skin is lighter than Christen's, so between the two strangers, that one's Kelley,” Ali added. “And Christen's mother is from London, she has some family on that side here, and she's, kid you not, a professional football player. She plays for... guess it?”

Ashlyn looked at her, and a spark in Ali's eyes, united by the slight movement upwards of her lip, made her jaw drop.

“No,” the detective blurted out, and Ali started to smile. “I don't think... no, the Arsenal? Come on!” Ali laughed, nodding. “For real?!” she was like a little child. “I just told you my friend's there! She's her coach!”

“I know!” Ali said gleeful. “I thought it was the funniest coincidence, but didn't want to say it too quickly. Christen's been playing all around the world, and she just came from Spain. Having seen much of any of them these few years, but we've always stayed in close contact, chatting all the time on the phone and through emails and of course planning holidays together or joining forces in Masham. They're my besties.”

“Oh, look at you, sounding like a happy kid,” Ashlyn chuckled. “Well I'm very glad your friends are such interesting people. I assume Whit told you about mine?”

“Well I already met Abby who works in the police and told me her wife is a writer, which could come in handy for this case, by the way. I know Tobin plays with Christen, because Christen told me they coincided once in America and are now together in the Arsenal. Also, Whitney told me Megan was in your football team once in Truro, that you coincided again during your sporadic education in Cornwall, and then casually coincided in the Navy, were you actually became friends, right?” Ashlyn nodded. “But when she decided to marry a basketball player, she left the Navy.”

“Sounding like a true detective,” Ashlyn said proudly. Ali giggled.

“Don't know much about Dave, though. Whit said you three are friends from St. Mawes, but I thought you said you didn't have many friends as a child? Aside from Charlie?”

“Charlie was my only one outside St. Mawes, but in St. Mawes I actually had Whitney and Dave, we were quite the trio... Dave's uncle is rich and lives in Australia, so we've had fun holidays there surfing and all in our teens, big sharks there.”

“Scary!”

“Agreed! Dave lives in Bristol now. We enlisted together, but he was working in Devon when I got invalidated out. He retired shortly, he told me my accident put things in perspective, and he just wanted to be home with his wife and three daughters. They established in London, lovely people. I'm their firstborn's Godmother actually. He was always too fearless for his own good, so I must say it's a relief that he's an engineer now, much safer than sailor.”

Ashlyn opened the pub's door, holding it open for Ali, and they found it crowded as usual, but after Ali gave her name to the waitress, they were told there were people waiting for them already, so they took the stairs to the dining room. There, tables had been aligned for fourteen, putting the seats forming an oval so basically there were five people in each side, and two in each extreme.

They saw Abby, her wife Glennon, Whitney, Nick and Heather were about to sit, apparently having arrived a minute before them, and the group interrupted itself seeing Ashlyn and Ali and hugs and introductions were made before the seven sat down, chatting amicably. Nick, Abby and Glennon got up a few minutes later to get seven pints, and while they were gone, Kelley and Christen arrived, so there were more friendly introductions and, once nine sat around the table, Ashlyn squeezed between Whitney and Ali, conversation flowed as they got to know the new ladies, but it was as if they had all been friends forever, as everyone was very amicable, friendly and warm. This didn't change as, within minutes, they were joined by Dave Polworth -who got an specially warm welcome from Ashlyn, Abby, Heather and Whitney, who knew him but hadn't seen him in ages-, as well as Tobin Heath, Megan Rapinoe and Sue Rapinoe. When Kyle was the only one missing, Ali worried and stood up to call him privately and make sure he wasn't getting lost. He had arrived the night before to London, and Ali had made sure to explain him properly where the Tottenham was, but Kyle and her did come from a much smaller place.

Ashlyn saw Ali march to the stairs, phone pressed against her ear, her long legs squeezed in very tight black jeans, standing in short-heeled short boots, while her breasts hid beneath a pretty blouse.

“Kyle?” Ali asked as her brother answered the phone. “Where are you?”

“Sorry sis, I got distracted getting your boss a little birthday present, I'm just getting inside the Tottenham...”

“Where- oh!” Ali hung up and grinned, running to her brother between the multitude. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers, so she squeezed him tight careful with those and laughed as she looked at them more carefully. “Flowers?”

“Well, I thought, when was the last time she was given flowers? Since she's kinda butch, you said...” Kyle smiled and shrugged. “Am I the last one? I'm sorry...”

The two entered the dining room, where more drinks were being delivered, and Ashlyn spotted them and almost laughed right there. Debbie seemed to have copied different versions of herself into her children, as they were all frighteningly alike, so much Ali and Kyle could easily have been born at once. Kyle had her same huge smile and pretty brown eyes, although his features were more masculine, more reminding of the father Ashlyn had only seen in pictures. He had dark trimmed beard, abundant dark eyebrows properly groomed so they looked masculine and wild but also not a disaster, and his hair was short and dark. He was as tall as Ashlyn, which was a lot considering Ashlyn was three years older than him, and he was pure muscle and fitness. He was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt, but Ashlyn knew, because Ali had said so, that he had plenty of tattoos covering his arms and part of his chest.

“Mr Kyle Krieger!” Ashlyn stood up and grinned walking to hug Kyle. “Oh are those for me?”

“Happy birthday!” Kyle giggled as she took the flowers and hugged him.

“Thank you very much, you know, I don't remember the last time I was given flowers,” Ashlyn smelled them. “So nice, by the way you guys are twins or what?”

Ali laughed and everyone started to sit back down after introductions.g

“Us? But we're so different!” Ali joked.

“Polar opposites. I don't know how anyone would identify us as siblings...” Kyle went on with the joke, and they sat between laughing and giggling.

Not knowing what to do with the flowers for the time being, Ashlyn put them on another table, a free one, behind her.

“So Kyle, Ali said you're a hairdresser, planning on opening a place here?” Abby asked with interest. “I could appreciate a familiar face for the occasional trimming...”

“Actually, I was hoping on coming to work here,” Kyle half smiled. “Not my own place though, I'm giving my CV all around! Masham's nice, but not enough people for three hairdressers.”

“You'll definitely find more clients here,” Dave nodded in agreement. “Speaking of hair, when did you get this whole new...” he messed Ashlyn's hair with an amused expression in his blue eyes. “Fashion? Thirty years and I've never seen you with short hair, it fits you.”

“I had short hair as a toddler, once,” Ashlyn shook her head to re-organize her hair, but smirked. “But yeah, I've been wanting a cut for years and Lisbeth never let me, so last month I happened to sleep with someone who had talent with these things and offered for free.”

“Oh so you did sleep with Ciara,” Ali had suspected it for long, but instead of resenting her, shook her head with amusement, more relieved knowing she was well out of her life.

“I did not say so, me? Never, I wouldn't,” Ashlyn said in an exaggerated mock tone.

“What, a client?” Dave inquired with amusement.

“Number one rule, no clients,” Ashlyn clarified. “No, it's... well, a model. And I wasn't looking for it, she was giving me ton of information and then happened to get a little carried away. One time thing, to celebrate singleness, you know.”

“A fucking model,” Nick whistled. “Do you ever date someone ugly? Like, for once?”

“There's still time!”

“So you did break-up then?” Megan, or Pinoe as everyone called her, inquired, beer in hand and leaning over the table, her short blonde hair neatly brushed over her rectangular factions. Ashlyn nodded. “Girl, thank God, I was afraid you'd actually marry her.”

“Oh, gossip time!” Kyle clapped hands, making him laugh. “Was she a bitch Pinoe?”

Ashlyn rolled eyes with amusement as her friends who had known Lisbeth for years collectively groaned.

“Manipulative liar,” Pinoe informed.

“Compulsive liar,” added Tobbin.

“Whore,” continued Nick.

“Snob, attention-seeker, drama queen,” Whitney went on.

“Also completely crazy, that girl was missing at least a dozen screws,” concluded Dave.

“As a matter of fact, the only reason Ashlyn almost married her was because she was gorgeous. Like devil gorgeous,” Abby said then.

“Oh, that's not true!” Ashlyn complained. “I mean... yes, but I didn't propose to her for that.”

“Then why?” Heather asked.

“You didn't even buy her a ring, it was an impulse proposal,” Whitney commented. “Like most of your awful decisions.”

“I didn't buy her a ring because I had just gotten invalidated out of the Navy, I didn't have the money for her expensive likes and she said not to mind,” Ashlyn shrugged. “But yeah, I proposed because we had been together for ten years at the time, and I genuinely had fun with her. I mean, two birthdays ago we were happily celebrating in a spa, she paid it and surprised me in-between work things. We had genuine great times, and I loved her, period.”

“The Heart has its reasons, which Reasons don't know,” Ali sentenced with a tone of wisdom, putting down her glass of wine.

“Sorry?” Ashlyn asked, confused.

“Kathryn Kent,” Ali reminded her, and Ashlyn's eyebrows lifted in realization. “She's not so stupid after all, uh?”

“Right! I did thought of Beth when we read that.”

“Who's Kathryn Kent?” Sue Rapinoe asked.

“Wait... isn't she some erotic fantasy writer?” Glennon Wambach winced. “What kind of shit are you reading these days?”

“It's for a case,” Ali clarified. “She's the lover of a guy we're looking for. And he's married, so when she talks about him in her blog... well, she said that. The heart has its reasons.”

“Ali has a remarkable memory and capacity of attention,” Ashlyn complimented, getting her to blush and Kyle to cheer. “But since the topic came up, Glennon, you may know our guy, Owen Quine? He's gone missing and we have no idea where he is. His wife is desperate to find him, and it's almost been a fortnight without news.”

Glennon frowned, becoming slightly less gorgeous for a moment as she sipped her wine in concentration.

“Of course I know Owen Quine, but because of the many proper writers who've told me absolute shit about him, he's gotten a lot of people bloody furious, wouldn't be surprised if someone killed him. Never met him face to face though... and you say he's gone missing?”

“Why hasn't she told us at the Met?” Abby inquired. “I could've put people to look for him two weeks ago, he'd be back by now.”

“Apparently this is the kind of shit he does. Like Beth's many fake threats, you know?” Ashlyn explained. “He goes missing like a little kid when someone pisses him off. So police, at least your mates in missing persons... they no longer take it seriously. Apparently last time, they found him with one of his many whores.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kelley frowned. “Unfaithful jackass. I thought you guys only had nice clients.”

“Far from the truth,” Ali said.

“What happened to your lip, by the way?” Kyle asked, noticing then despite the light, that was yellowish, a little dimly, making things cosier and hiding facial imperfections.

“Nasty client precisely, I already took care of it,” Ashlyn promised before Kyle could worry. “Most of our clients, and I was just commenting with with Ali the other day, aren't people we're specially happy to help. But we need the money.”

“Yeah, we only took in Quine's case because Ashlyn has a soft spot for desperate poor middle-aged ladies who look lost and defenceless in the world,” Ali looked affectionately at Ashlyn, who blushed, as her friends made noises of 'awww'.

“I lose my will to live after weeks of mostly finding women reasons to divorce after finding their husbands cheating and being dicks, like five a day, it's depressing,” Ashlyn sighed. “I just wanted to return a good father home for once.”

“Oh, he's a good father?” Tobin raised an eyebrow. “That explains it.”

“He's got a little daughter, I think,” Ashlyn said. “Orlando. She misses him, her mother calls me daily and I always hear her in the back asking if we've found her Daddy yet. It's heartbreaking.”

“And you've got no idea where he is?” Christen asked.

“No,” Ashlyn shrugged. “Was hoping Glen knew something.”

“I'm sorry honey, all I know is people dislike him, and you know after a fortnight...” Glennon sighed and shook her head.

“I know,” Ashlyn said.

“Wait, what happens?” Ali asked, confused. Ashlyn let out a long breath and looked sadly at her.

“If someone disappears for a fortnight, chances are it wasn't voluntary. Chances are he's dead, Ali.” Ali looked shocked, and her jaw dropped.

“Then shouldn't we call the police? Doesn't matter what Leonora says?”

“I'll call on Monday,” Ashlyn promised. “Let's give him one last chance to appear this weekend, or else I'll call myself, so Leonora doesn't get mocked again. But I want to see what we find out tomorrow first.”

“What's happening tomorrow?” Glennon asked.

“We're going to a Roper Chard party in the evening,” Ali replied while she was checking the menu for dinner. “Hoping to get some inside information. Quine published for them.”

“And apparently had half of them pissed-off,” Ashlyn added. “I'm also hoping to get a manuscript of this last book he wrote and that people are becoming furious about. Tried to get some information from Leonora Quine, his wife, but she never read it.”

“I proof-read Glennon's books,” Abby commented. “What kind of person doesn't read their partners' stuff before publishing?”

“She only reads it when it's with the cover and all. She says otherwise it's not proper.”

The waiter came to ask for their orders for dinner and they paused the conversation to clear-out what each person wanted to eat, and second rounds of drinks were asked. Afterwards, conversation filled with nonsense, nonimportant things and laughter, getting to know everyone better. Ashlyn was having a really good time, and three pints down she was of easy laugh, even more seeing that Ali with one glass of wine was already mostly tipsy and throwing her head back in laughter, which made her look even more beautiful to Ashlyn's eyes. Bloody lucky Eric.

  
  


  
  



	20. Story time

**Chapter 20: Story time.**

“Ash, I don't wish to intrude,” Christen commented softly as plates were lowered onto the table a while later. “But what's that crutch for? I hope no client got too pissed.”

Ashlyn snorted a laugh, shaking her head.

“It has a bit to do with a client, a bit to do with other stuff,” Ashlyn said mysteriously, sipping from her beer. “To be honest with you Christen, I was invalidated out of the Navy like, nineteen months ago, due to a...” Ashlyn stopped herself as she caught Ali looking very interested, and then she realized. She had never told Ali what her nightmares were about or exactly how she got invalidated out. She had told her that she was in a ship in the Persian Gulf and that she ship sank and she survived, sustaining the knee injury, but that was it. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the realization that her employee had gotten slapped earlier in the day for taking a job she had been forced to take due to Ashlyn's injury, but Ashlyn decided it was time for brutal honesty. She was, after all, a very open and brutally honest person, and disliked hiding stories that could help other people confront their own darkness. “Uhm... actually, in March last year, there was a Killed in Combat in Iraq. Well, there were many all the time, unfortunately, but in this certain case I was sent to take a look, because I was a sergeant in the Special Investigations Branch of the Navy Police.”

“What do they do?” Kyle inquired, supporting his chin on his hand as he listened with his sister's avid curiosity.

“We used to investigate marines who got killed in combat, or perhaps who had committed a crime or were involved with something illegal. Sometimes we did other stuff, but mainly, that was it,” Ashlyn replied. “So I was always travelling around the world, depending on where I was needed, and often in ships or near the coast. At the time, I was called to board a ship from Plymouth to the Persian Gulf, because there was this killed person and my boss suspected that someone else in the Navy was responsible for it, so it was a biggie one, very delicate, and they wanted it to be handled by someone who knew how to keep a secret. Now it doesn't matter anymore, because the investigation finished a long time ago. But off I went and the ship was moored in the Port of Al-Faw, which is a place in south Iraq. During the night, no one's really sure what exactly happened... but somehow someone must've gotten in and they set two bombs in different parts of the ship, key parts to make it sink. It wasn't a huge ship, this one, but still... there were a bunch of people inside. I was sleeping in my cabin when the first bomb and the consequent shake and alarms woke my up, and I ran out and water was already flooding in super fast. The second bomb happened while I was scrambling to get out, and the whole ship was underwater in seconds. So understandably, somehow, while I was trying to get out I hit somewhere and injured my knee quite badly, which I didn't realize in the moment,” Ashlyn explained casually. “Next thing I knew I was swimming in the surface, along with the very few of us who made it out. So I got invalidated out, and got a small surgery, but with these things, you can't have every surgery at once, gotta give it time to see how it improves so... there were some things that weren't completely right after the surgery, some things the knee never really recovered from, ligament damage and stuff, and my doctor recommended a second, more complex surgery, but of course I was jobless, with no interest on desk jobs or Navy anymore, and wanting to open my private investigations agency, and I only had a bit of a limp and a bit of pain, so whatever. And then last month, we had a bit of a surprise visit at the office from the murderer of Lula Landry, and in the consequent fight my knee got screwed-up for real and surgery was unavoidable. It's much better now, and I have rehab and stuff, but doctor says I should still help myself with one crutch for a couple weeks more or so, to keep most of the weight off it. That's why your friend Ali here has been doing an amazing job taking more work on her shoulders so my knee could rest.”

Ashlyn looked so proudly at Ali, that she blushed and smiled small.

“Only doing it so I can keep my job, you know,” Ali commented jokingly, elbowing her playfully.

“Well that sure is a story for the grandkids,” Kelley commented lightly, and Ashlyn chuckled and nodded. “Happy you're alive for the dirty thirty, though!”

“Thank you,” Ashlyn half-smiled. “Dying at 28 would've been a bit of a bummer, to be honest. I won two thousand pounds at the lottery not three months later!”

“Wait a second...” Christen narrowed her eyes. “You're _that_ Harris! Ali! You didn't say!”

“What?” Ali asked.

“I'm the Harris who stabbed her coach Dad, right?” Ashlyn inquired, and Christen blushed in embarrassment. “It's okay, I figured you'd know when Ali said you were a player. Most football people know.”

“Well, I knew a bit...” Christen shrugged apologetically. “Hao and I are old friends for years and she told me her first love died and then his father almost killed his mother, one time she was sulking over an anniversary.”

“I'm sorry Ash,” Heather apologized.

“Like I said, it's totally fine,” Ashlyn smiled small. “It's part of your story too, and it's in the internet, anyway. I don't mind people know, the only think I mind is journalist barging in my door to make money with tragedies, and you're both football people, that's practically family. As much as I hate Curtis Harris, I loved football, played it myself for a long time.”

“Ali said you're a huge fan of the Arsenal men, you'll have to come watch the ladies now, right?” Christen smiled warmly.

“She better, I've been trying to drag her for the longest time! Got you tickets for your birthday,” Tobin told Ashlyn excitedly.

“Thanks Tobs! Yeah, I'll go. Hopefully you guys disappoint me less than the men's lately. Did you see the game versus...?”

Conversation turned into football, that monopolized it for a good half an hour, and then Ali's phone rang and when she saw it was Eric, she was forced to go talk on the phone outside by the pub door, where she was able to actually hear her fiancé. Ashlyn did not miss Kyle's eye-roll when Ali said 'Hi baby' as she stood up from her chair, and she didn't miss his obvious dislike for the dude either.

“What's so bad about Eric, Kyle?” Ashlyn inquired with a chuckle. Kyle looked up at her and half smiled.

“No one's good enough for a little sister, ever,” he replied simply. “I'd rather she wouldn't marry him. She knows I don't like him enough for a brother-in-law, but I promised I'd behave, as I'm the Best Man.”

“Is he a jerk?” Heather asked. “What is he, a businessman? Those are usually jerks.”

“An accountant for some law firm,” Kyle answered with annoyance. “Which is about as bad. He's so boring, egocentric, self-centred, rigid... he sees the world from himself and rarely does something for someone else without expecting something in return. But God forbid he was there every time Alex had a low moment, she talks about it as if he was some kind of hero and not, you know, doing what boyfriends are supposed to be happy to do. What happens is that he's handsome and he was there when others weren't, let me tell you. Otherwise, I'm sure she would've left him. They couldn't be more different if they tried. But she won't listen to her brother, who has plenty of experience with boyfriends. All she's ever wanted, since we were little, was the blue prince, and I guarantee Eric might have a prince name, but he's not one.”

“That's one protective brother,” Dave chuckled. “I get it though, if any of my girls ever gets a shitty boyfriend, I'll throw them to the sea.”

“I'll pretend I didn't hear that,” Abby laughed.

“You're so lucky you only date girls,” Kyle told Ashlyn with amusement. “Not all men are as awesome as myself.” Ashlyn laughed.

“Actually, I did date a man once,” she raised her eyebrows towards Dave, who laughed.

“Wild times!” he nodded.

“You two went out?” Sue Rapinoe asked, amazed.

“For... what, a year? I'm surprised we lasted so long,” Dave commented with a big smile. “Back in the army, during one long split of Ashlyn and Beth. But we were really like best friends with benefits, it was love, but not like couples' love, more like... a weird hybrid between siblings and besties who fuck.”

“Gross!” Tobin covered her eyes jokingly with a hand, and they laughed.

“I think we both knew we were in it just while we were lonely,” Ashlyn added. “I was always in love with Beth, and then when Mrs Polworth came around, we decided that he should go get her and I should try Beth again. Only guy I'd ever consider dating, such a gentleman, and didn't mind my butchy nature.”

“Sex was also awesome, that influences,” Dave laughed, joking around, and Ashlyn nodded with a chuckle.

“Amen mate! Lucky wife!”

“All is fun and games until someone gets pregnant,” Heather warned with an amused chuckle.

“Well luckily it didn't happen, we were freaking young back then,” Ashlyn looked around for Ali, surprised she wasn't back yet. “I'm going to see if Krieger's stealing all the beer for herself.” She finished her pint and determined, grabbed her one crutch and went to the stairs out of the dinning room and into the normal bar area.

Looking around she didn't find Ali, and imagined she was outside where she could speak properly on the phone. She exited into Oxford Street, and was surprised to find Ali staring at her feet, with her back against the façade, hugging herself with her left arm and, to Ashlyn's astonishment, using her free hand to smoke, and by the way she did it, it didn't look like it was her first time. She gave her fag a long puff and sighed looking up at the sky, clearing her throat. Ashlyn stood there watching, afraid that one wrong step would interrupt the moment Ali was clearly having, something in her trance getting Ashlyn out of her own drunken trance. Ali's eyes were a little glassy, she looked worn-out, and there was no trace of the laughter they had shared moments before.

Then, Ali suddenly noticed her, and forced a small smile, patting her cigarette with her thumb so the ashes would fall to the ground. Ashlyn realized there she looked cold, and wordlessly, took off her suit jacket and offered it to Ali, who smiled a bit more sincerely and separated from the wall, letting Ashlyn put it around her shoulders.

“I didn't know you were a smoker,” Ashlyn commented softly.

“It's an old bad habit,” Ali shrugged. “I only buy one pack a month or every few months... I hadn't smoked since I got the job with you, actually. Bought this pack when I still lived in Masham.”

“I take the conversation with Eric didn't go well?”

Ali took another puff, careful with not blowing the smoke on Ashlyn's face, and the veteran contemplated her silently. She knew sometimes you just had to give it a bit of time, and they'd talk.

“You should go back inside,” Ali said, her voice a little raspy from smoking. “It's your birthday party and you're missing it.”

“My birthday was three days ago, and I've never liked my birthday much anyway. I wouldn't have celebrated if you weren't so excited about it, so... you'll have to come back inside with me.”

“Why don't you like your birthday?”

“Because,” Ashlyn half-shrugged, “they're supposed to be the celebration of your birth. One day in which the world shows how happy it is you came into it, right? But through my childhood, I never felt my birth was a good thing. My brother and mother liked to make me feel special on the day... but Curtis always made sure I knew he'd rather I hadn't been born.”

“Dickhead,” Ali blurted out, and Ashlyn half smiled.

“Alexandra Krieger, must be the first time I've heard you curse!”

“Probably isn't, you just forget,” Ali smiled small. “You're a bloody good person. You should be celebrated. Your family should be proud.”

“Then come and celebrate me,” Ashlyn offered with a tiny smile.

“I'm afraid I've lost the celebratory mood, Ash,” Ali murmured, looking at her with a little frown. “I'd only ruin it.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, you could never ruin anything?” Ali snorted, but Ashlyn raised her eyebrows. “I'm serious. Might be the alcohol talking but... I don't tell lies to look good, I'm sure you know by now. My life is much better since you came around. If you hadn't been there, I'd have returned to a relationship with someone who never valued me or truly loved me. My agency would've sunk, I'd be in debt to my eyeballs, and I'd never have resolved Lula's case.”

“Nonsense. You're bloody smart, you did it all on your own talent.”

“No. I did it because I had help. Because you pushed me to go on, you made my life easier, you took tasks and concerns off my shoulders so I could focus on Lula... I've told you before. Sometimes it might seem like you do little stuff... but your work, on and off the agency, everything you do is so very necessary. The agency needs you. I need you. You're my Watson... better than that.” Ali side-smiled small, and gave her a timid look. “One day you'll have to tell me why you value yourself so little, when you're so big.” Ashlyn added softly, putting a hand on her shoulder gently.

The hand slid down to her back, and before anyone could know if one had thrown herself into the other, or the other had pushed her in, they were hugging. Ali had collided against Ashlyn's chest harshly, one arm around Ashlyn's hips, the fag on the ground and the hand that had held it on her middle back, while Ashlyn's arms wrapped firmly around her, resting her chin on her head after having kissed it previously, briefly. One of her hands flew up to bury in Ali's hair, caressing her skull with her thumb and closing her eyes as her nostrils were invaded by Ali's shampoo smell.

“My fiancé doesn't think so highly of me, I think,” Ali murmured into her chest.

“He loves you,” Ashlyn assured her, feeling Ali's soft hair against her cheek. “He wants to spend his whole life with you. Only you.”

“What if he wants to spend his whole life not with me, but with his ideal of me?” Ali asked, her voice small. “What if he wants an Ali who works five hours a day, comes home, has it all clean and neat, his clothes ironed and food on the table, an Ali that effortlessly raises his children and still looks gorgeous every day, and smiles and is happy and always wants to hear him dominate every conversation,and loves him and doesn't have another identity but Mrs Eric Cunleaf?”

Ashlyn moved her hands to hold Ali's face with firmness but gentleness, and let her forehead fall against Ali's, and for a moment they saw the other stare at their lips, and Ali had the feeling that Ashlyn struggled not to kiss her, and in her tipsiness, didn't think kissing would be a bad idea. But Ashlyn tilted her face up a little, and stared deeply into her eyes, Ali's hands still around her waist.

“Then maybe you need to tell him that's not you. Perhaps you need to face him, and tell him, like you told me, what you want to do in life, and be clear that your happiness depends on those things, and so they will have priority and you'll do them with or without him. Perhaps you need to tell him you're a rockstar detective, a badass woman, and worth so much and if he doesn't value you for all of that, then you'll find someone else who does. A blue prince, isn't it?” she looked a bit surprised, and Ashlyn smiled small. “You can't shut up and let someone else direct your life, Ali, you have to be clear and honest with him and once he knows where he's truly getting into, you should ask him if he really does want to marry that Ali. The one your brother admires, the one we all adore.”

“He's going to be furious,” Ali muttered. “He's pissed I've been coming home late all week, and now tonight having dinner out, and tomorrow again... he says he never sees me anymore, that he misses me.”

“Bullshit. Look, despite Beth's many flaws... you know? I have to admit none of us ever pulled that card to justify anger. If she missed me when I was months out in the sea, she showed it by showering me with kisses the moment I came through the door. You don't lose time arguing. And if he really was pissed because he misses you, he'd be giving you reasons to be home more. He'd be kissing you the minute you come through the door, and telling you how beautiful you look and how empty the house is without you.” Ali snorted a laugh.

“You're just a romantic. That's not the real world. There are no... blue princes.”

“Why not?” Ashlyn grinned. “You only live once. Didn't they tell you once you wouldn't be a detective? That police work wasn't for you? But you're here. You took that desire you had as a little girl and you made it a reality. No one tells you something cannot happen, Ali. You deserve to be with someone who never makes you doubt your worth, someone who doesn't need you to apologize all the time because they understand your job is truly important, just like Glennon does with Abby.”

Ali bit her lip and Ashlyn lowered her hands to her shoulders.

“He wants me to go home now. Well, actually, ten minutes ago or so. And wait until he smells the fags...”

“Whatever you think you should do, I'll support you,” Ashlyn stepped back, and Ali missed her comfort instantly. “But Ali... if not for you... do it for those children he wants you to have. So one day they're not thirty and never forgetting the decision you made.” Ali's eyes widened, but Ashlyn was already opening the door to go back inside. Ashlyn held the door open, and gave Ali one last look, while Ali stared at her from the street, suddenly feeling incredibly lost and alone. “I'll tell them Eric got sick.” They both knew the decision Ali had made.

“My coat and purse are inside,” Ali murmured, and took the door to walk behind Ashlyn. “I'm sorry, Ash...”

“It's not me you have to apologize to, Al,” Ashlyn smiled small, and it was the last they spoke that night.

  
  



	21. The Roper Chard party

**Chapter 21: The Roper Chard party.**

On Saturday, Ashlyn woke up to her phone ringing, and checking the watch, she saw it was only nine in the morning, which was early considering it was the weekend, her first free Saturday morning in weeks, as it was usually therapy morning, and she had fallen asleep merely four hours before, after two just tossing and turning in bed trying not to think of Ali. Kyle had been furious she was leaving, after Ali had said Eric needed her at home because he wasn't feeling well, and Kyle had seen right through it, and Kelley and Christen, who knew Ali and Eric, had whispered something in her ear while they took turns to hug her goodbye, all but Ashlyn, who merely waved, having hugged her already. That whisper had seemed to Ashlyn like a piece of advice, but she'd never know.

She turned around on her bed at Whitney and Nick's, her head pounding from far too many drinks. The party had been really fun and there were even gifts and cake in the end, apparently a tiny cake Ali had made, but her absence was too noticeable for Ashlyn to enjoy in the same level. Ali had been the one super excited about her birthday, not her. Eyes still mostly closed, Ashlyn pressed her phone against her ear.

“Harris,” Ashlyn said hoarsely, flopping back against her pillow.

“Ash, it's me,” Ali's voice made her eyes open wide. She sounded sad.

“Ali! Good morning, you're not in the office yet, right?”

“No, uh... look, Ashlyn, I really feel bad about this, but I have no choice. I'll see you on Monday.”

“What do you mean?” Ashlyn frowned. “We have a full day Ali. I need you, we had a plan.”

“I'm sorry, okay? I'm very sorry, but you'll need to ask Nina, see if she can help enough.”

“You do realize you're dumping me and the agency in an important day, right?” Ashlyn found herself harsher than intended. She was always rough in the mornings, even more before tea, with such little sleep, a pounding headache, and when the phone was her alarm clock. “Tonight is essential. If something goes wrong, we could lose Quine for good. If you had told me from the start you wouldn't be available, awesome, but in the last minute... how the hell am I supposed to redo a whole new plan, with a complete stranger, in ten hours? Nina's probably as good as nothing, and I can't do this alone.”

“You think I'm sloping off?” Ali inquired indignant. “Look Ash, I know how bloody important this is, you know I wouldn't do this if it wasn't absolutely necessary, and I am incredibly sorry about putting you through this—,”

“Necessary for what? Is this about Eric, still being a little boy?”

“Don't be unfair, Ashlyn,” Ali said annoyed.

“I'm not, Ali. Look, as your friend, I want to be understanding and comprehensive and offer you my whole support. Had you told me this yesterday morning, I'd be all of that and more, but right now you've fucked me up big time,” Ashlyn said harshly.

“Come on, you're Ashlyn Harris, I'm sure you can—,”

“Can what?” Ashlyn interrupted, letting his anger, partially anger against Eric, flow. “Speaking as your boss, who would've fired you effect immediately if this was the Navy and I was a bitch, I've slept four hours because I was busy enjoying the party that _you_ prepared for me, and I let myself go because I trusted you and I had no doubts I had nothing to worry about because I'd wake up at noon, meet you for lunch, fix last-minute planning, and everything would be more than ready. And now you're telling me that I have to jump out of bed, and in my sleep-deprived state come-up with some brilliant plan to fix this and get that little girl her Daddy back, with almost zero help, and hey, I may or may not be able to sort something out with Nina, because as far as I'm concerned she doesn't have a reason to give me an hour more of her Saturday off. And no chance I can get Abby or anyone else because everyone's bloody sleeping after last night. So thank you, I'll see you on Monday then, have a good day.”

Ashlyn hung up and threw her phone to the feet of the bed with a puff. It was gonna be a long day.

**. . .**

Ignoring Ali and Beth's repeated calls for the rest of the day, Ashlyn spent the time until lunch planning something else, and got Nina Lascelles to agree meeting her for lunch at the place most convenient for Nina. The short-haired brunette was gorgeous, although too short for Ashlyn's standards, and she was quick-minded and smart, which came very in handy. Nine would introduce Ashlyn as her date, and since no one in Roper Chard knew Ashlyn yet, no one would suspect, as she'd introduce herself as Michelle Harris. Harris was a perfectly common surname, and Michelle was her middle name, non-associated with her dark family history. She'd say she was a cop and now in an assistant, and it'll work just fine.

They agreed to meet again at seven thirty. As Ashlyn focused on ironing her suit and making sure she was ready for the party, she asked herself how likely it was that she'd meet anyone who knew Quine's whereabouts at his publisher's party. _Trouble is_ , Ashlyn mentally chastised herself _, you keep acting like you're still a SIB. The nation's not paying you to be thorough any more, mate._

But she knew no other way: do the job, and do it right. It was her inflexible code of ethics and she had carried it for many years.

“It's just off the Strand,” Nina said as they walked next to each other in due time, both elegant in suit and dress respectively. “It's a new building with a roof garden. Bloody freezing,” she added tightening her coat, and Ashlyn imitated her. “But times are hard, can't afford hiring somewhere.”

“It's about the _Bombyx Mori_ trouble?”

“Well Daniel Chard is livid. You don't put him as the bad guy in a dirty novel, horrible idea. They say he got sucked into the family business, but he actually wanted to be an artist. Like Hitler,” she added chuckling.

“Hitler?” she asked amused.

“They rant the same when he's upset. This week was the first we ever heard him speak above a mumble, shouting and screaming at Jerry.”

“Have you read the book?”

Nina didn't answer right away, and smirked before she finally did.

“Not officially...”

“And unofficially...”

“I might've had a sneaky peek.”

“Really?” Ashlyn raised eyebrows, clearly amused. “How so?”

“It's in Jerry's safe, but he told everyone the password because he's shit to remember it. He's the sweetest man in the world and probably didn't think we'd look when we're not supposed to. I saw it the Monday after he got it, and rumours were already raising due to Christian Fisher telling like, fifty people. I heard he even emailed parts that he scanned. That's when the lawyers called us to make us not talk about the book.”

“Is Chard a good CEO?” asked Ashlyn then, while they continued to walk towards their destination, in-between public transport.

“I guess... though quite mysterious and dignified, which made what Quine wrote about him quite funny. He called Chard Phallus Impudicus...”

Ashlyn let a loud guffaw out, and almost liked Quine for a second, while Nina giggled.

“Impudent Cock? For real?” Ashlyn asked while laughing, and Nina laughed harder.

“You did Latin? I hated it, gave it up... so I had to look it up and you know? It's also the name of a toadstool called stinkhorn, they smell vile, it seems, and look like rotting knobs. It's proper of Owen.”

“So what makes him Daniel Chard?”

“He walks like Daniel, talks, looks like... then he enjoys necrophilia with a handsome writer he's murdered, very gory and disgusting. Jerry always said that Own thinks the day wasted if he didn't make his readers gag at least a couple times. Poor Jerry, he's also in the book.”

It was impossible for Ashlyn to hold back an amused smirk.

“What kind of phallus is he?” she asked, making Nina laugh again.

“I flicked through it, so no idea. I only had half an hour. God knows why Quine's gone for Jerry, though, everybody loves him, he doesn't have one enemy in the world... Quine's just a bastard,” she added more quietly.

“Do you know Quine?”

“No... he's come around, tried to flirt, showing off, always trying to shock, but I always thought he was pathetic and I don't like one of his books. Jerry persuaded me to read _Hobart's Sin_ once and it was terrible. Now no one knows where Quine is, he must've hidden, with the fuss he's caused.”

“And no one knows why he wrote a book that was bound to get him sued?”

“He rows with everyone in the end, he's had a load of publishers... but Daniel Chard and Owen Quine don't really like each other, the rumour is the only reason Daniel publishes him is because he thinks it makes it look as though Owen's forgiven him for having been awful to Joe North.”

Ashlyn remembered Joe North. He had been a handsome blond young man in one of Elizabeth Tassel's framed photographs in her office. Elizabeth had said they all were good friends,but Joe had died long ago in his youth.

“He was awful?”

“Don't know details... Owen swore he'd never work for Daniel, but he ran out of publishers.”

“And what about his row with Jerry Waldegrave?”

“Absolutely bizarre, doesn't make sense. They never rowed. Look, I'm not sure about what he says of Jerry in the book, but I know he's done over loads of people, even his wife, or Liz Tassel, who stuck by him through thick and thin. Now everyone's furious at her. Daniel himself ordered for her to be disinvited today.”

As they were coming closer to the party, Nina reminded Ashlyn they were supposed to be dating, after meeting at a party a week ago, so Ashlyn put a hand on her lower back and smiled at her warmly. Experience had taught her that there was a type of women that usually flew to her arms. Her friend Dave Polworth liked to say they were usually 'bat shit crazy' and gorgeous, and through many girlfriends -mostly in-between dating Beth, with whom splits had been as frequent as reconciliation- Ashlyn had learnt this was true and Lisbeth was the queen of them all. Smart, clever and ridiculously beautiful like a Greek Godess, her ex-fiancée was damaged and returned again and again no matter what her friends said about it, which was never good.

Now, Ashlyn knew, Lisbeth was preparing herself to be Duchess, pretending her eleven years on-and-off with Ashlyn were nothing serious, even though back in Oxford, Ashlyn had won her over the Duke, and she'd do it again if she wanted to. Ashlyn wasn't oblivious; she knew she was a beautiful woman herself. Girls, particularly the most feminine ones, often found themselves attracted to her overconfidence, her butchy self, her hazel eyes and brick-wall face with prominent cheekbones, while still being feminine in her factions. They enjoyed to feel her strong arms and abs and see her tattoos, and to feel protected between Ashlyn arms, not to mention the whole military background. Ashlyn knew she could get any girl if she truly tried to, but now work filled virtually every waking hour, and she had already resisted the advances of many glamorous clients, soon-to-be divorcées, many of which Ashlyn was pretty sure would define themselves as straight.

But she always found it hard to submit into actual relationships. Beth had been hard to endure, particularly the first few months, but one-night stands have always been a welcome distraction for Ashlyn, so as Nina Lascelles hurried next to her, laughing a bit too much at her jokes and touching her arm more than it was necessary, Ashlyn, who didn't really find her too attractive, knew without it being a problem of conscience, that the night would end in Nina's bed.

Roper Chard's building was tall and modern, with those glass doors that spin, and a wide lobby full of people in evening dress. To get in, Nina had to show an invite, and then they walked together into a large mirrored lift.

“So what happened to your assistant?”

“Got sick,” Ashlyn lied. “Can you introduce me to anyone who knew Quine well and might know where he is?”

“The only person that occurs to me is Jerry.”

They moved into the crowd in the roof terrace, where tables filled a large part of the place, surrounded by white-coated waiters that brought party food. Ashlyn took a couple of dainty crab cakes and ate them without a second thought, but then frowned at Nina.

“What do chefs have against food to make it so tiny?”

Once again Nina giggled, but Ashlyn still didn't find her as charming and sweet as Ali, although her company was comforting and enjoyable anyway.

“That's Daniel Chard, the bald one,” Nina pointed out towards her ear, dissimulating by getting on her tiptoes and kissing her cheek. Ashlyn looked up at the suited man and nodded, unable to contain a grin of amusement as she thought of Phallus Impudicus.

Ashlyn expected him older and uglier, but he was actually okay, with a thin-lipped mouth and thick eyebrows. The two were offered glasses of champagne, and toasted before taking large gulps, staring around at the crowds. Chard was talking with whom Nina explained, was Jerry's daughter, a new author.

The view over the city was incredible, all black with lights were and there, and Ashlyn couldn't help the pang in her chest from thinking somewhere in the dark vastness lied Ali, lonely, and with a fiancé who wasn't worth a penny, in Ashlyn's humble opinion.

Nina took her from her thoughts by grabbing her hand and pulling her towards three girls around her age.

“Hi guys!” Nina saluted. “Anyone seen Jerry?”

“He's had quite a few,” one of them said.

“Shit, he was doing so well!” Nina lamented.

“It's _Bombyx Mori_ , and I think Fenella had another tantrum... when is she going to leave her?” another girl said. “She's somewhere here, while Jerry gets drunk until he passes out.”

“Aren't you going to introduce us, Nina?” said the third girl.

Nina introduced her to Miranda, Sarah and Emma, but she still didn't know which one was which by the time the girls had immersed into a conversation about how vile Jerry's wife was, until they were interrupted by Jerry himself. He had a round face with glasses and a bit of brown hair, he slurred a little and had a glass of red wine half empty in his hand.

“Three guesses what you're talking about. _Bombyx, Mori,_ Quine,” he said with an amiable smile. “Oh, hi!” he added, offering Ashlyn a hand that she gladly shook.

“Jerry, this is my date, Ashlyn,” she added, winking at the three women, who giggled, grinning at her.

“Nice to meet you. Didn't know you fancied women,” Jerry added with a hint of surprise, looking sympathetic at Nina.

“I fancy good people that's all.”

“Mr Waldegrave,” Ashlyn said politely, “I'm not a journalist, but there's a rumour going on that you're in Quine's book in a bad way, although I've heard nothing but good things about you. Can I ask why would he write bad stuff of you?”

“He thinks I'm gratuitously brutal to his masterpieces,” Waldegrave rolled eyes. “But looks like he's gone underground again, not answering my calls. He's making me worry.”

“Worry, after what he's done to you?” one of the ladies said.

“The book reads like a suicide note,” Waldegrave said, looking serious. “Not joking. I think he's having a breakdown. The subtext is everyone's against me, everyone hates me.”

“He's not wrong though,” another of the ladies said. “He's always running after fucking-up, anyway.”

“He wouldn't kill himself!” the third lady said.

“People do kill themselves, when they think their whole reason for living is being taken away... even the fact that other people think their suffering is a joke isn't enough to shake them out of it,” Waldegrave said stubbornly. “Every good writer is screwy, anyway.”

“I met Liz recently, through a friend,” Ashlyn lied. “She kept saying this whole thing... that she's sorry. That she was ill and didn't read it properly, otherwise it wouldn't have happened.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Waldegrave snorted. “I know her. She knew what she was doing, she thought it was her last chance to make money off Owen. Nice bit of publicity off the back of the scandal about Fancourt, whom she's hated for years... and now he's disowning her client. Outrageous.”

“Any idea where he's gone, Jerry?” Inquired Nina.

“Anywhere... hopefully he's all right. I'm fond of the silly bastard, in spite of things...”

“Jerry, what's this big Fancourt scandal that's in the book?” asked one of the ladies of the group.

“Thought everyone knew it,” Waldegrave admitted with surprise. “Michael Fancourt had a first wife named Elspeth, who wrote a shit novel. Then, a literary magazine wrote an anonymous parody of it. Elspeth pinned the parody to the front of her dress and gassed herself, like Sylvia Plath.”

Ashlyn's eyebrows raised and her eyes widened, while another one of the ladies gasped. Nina seemed to have known already, like the other two women.

“Who wrote the parody?” asked Ashlyn then.

“Although Owen always denied it, I suppose it was him. Owen and Michael never spoke again, and in _Bombyx Mori_ , Owen suggests the author was Michael himself. Speaking of him,” Waldegrave glanced at his watch, “expect a grand announcement at nine. Enjoy the party.”

He drifted away and Nina and Ashlyn walked in the opposite direction, both inside their long coats. Shivering, they went back into the building. Ashlyn was dying to go home and sleep, already holding yawns back, before having to spend Sunday tailing another unfaithful husband. She never had Ali work on Sundays, but she worked them. Nina saluted a lot of colleagues, and sometimes stopped to introduce Ashlyn, so she got to meet Jerry's wife, who was apparently a 'horrible snob'.

Inside, Daniel Chard appeared at nine, finally, for the announcement. He must have had a great deal of practice, the detective thought, and yet his public speaking was barely competent. Chard looked up mechanically to the same spot over the crowd’s head at regular intervals; he made eye contact with nobody; he was, at times, barely audible. After taking his listeners on a brief journey through the illustrious history of Roper Publishing, he spoke about the antecedents of Chard Books, his grandfather’s company, and described his own humble delight and pride, expressed in the same flat monotone as the rest, in finding himself, ten years on, as head of the global company. His small jokes were greeted with exuberant laughter fuelled, Ashlyn thought, by discomfort as much as alcohol.

“There can be no doubt,” said Chard, “that publishing is currently undergoing a period of rapid changes and fresh challenges, but one thing remains as true today as it was a century ago: content is king. While we boast the best writers in the world, Roper Chard will continue to excite, to challenge and to entertain. And it is in that context, that I am honoured and delighted to tell you that we have this week secured the talents of one of the finest authors in the world. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Michael Fancourt!”

The excitement in the room was felt between the applause and cheer, and Nina looked really excited, saying 'oh my God' over and over again.

“Thanks, Dan,” said Fancourt. “Well, I certainly never expected to find myself here,” he said, and these words were greeted by a raucous outbreak of laughter, “but it feels like a homecoming. I wrote for Chard and then I wrote for Roper and they were good days. I was an angry young man and now I’m an angry old man,” much laughter and even a small smile from Daniel Chard, “and I look forward to raging for you. I’m delighted to be back and I’ll do my best to – what was it, Dan? – keep Roper Chard exciting, challenging and entertaining.”

“Incredible,” Nina grinned, applauding with the others.

“Your CEO doesn't love the limelight.”

“Oh, well, before he couldn't even look from his notes ten years ago. He's a good businessman, though.”

Suddenly, Ashlyn had an idea.

“Nina,” she whispered, leaning to her ear and putting an arm around her to press her close, to make them look like they were just being couplish, “where did you say the manuscript of _Bombyx Mori_ is?”

“Floor below this, in Jerry's safe,” she looked naughty up at her, sipping the rest of her glass and smirking. “Are you asked what I think you're asking?”

“How much trouble could you be in?”

“Loads, but I've got my keycard and everyone's busy, right?”

Ashlyn grinned.

“I need a copy of that manuscript.”

“Let's go get it then.”

  
  



	22. Women

**Chapter 22: Women.**

Ashlyn left Nina's flat early on Sunday. She hadn't brought her crutch to the party, not wanting to do anything that might give her identity away, and now she had a tired knee and a need to stay home and rest, watching a game of the Spurs vs the Arsenal with Nick. After a shower, Ashlyn got into her pyjamas and joined her friends in the living room while holding her copy of _Bombyx Mori._ Nick and Whitney sat in pyjamas, watching the game while snuggled-up together, so Ashlyn occupied the chaise-longue, stretching her operated leg and glancing at the game while Nick handed her a can of beer.

“I take the party went well?” Nick inquired, eyeing her with his deep blue eyes like the ocean.

“It was okay. Nina was a nice fuck,” Ashlyn admitted, with a half-shrug.

“Oh, Lord,” Whitney half-smiled, shaking her head, while Nick giggled. “Aren't you ashamed of yourself talking about women like that?”

“Whit, I wish she talks about me like that on Monday with her colleagues,” Nick laughed harder and even Whitney let out a giggle.

“So what's up with Ali?” Whitney asked. “Did you guys fix your tantrum?”

“We don't have a tantrum. I'm pissed off because of the stress she put me through yesterday... I don't get it. One day she's talking about how she's serious with this, she wants to be a detective and all, but when her childish future husband calls because he's so egocentric he thinks she should be there when he wants and is available, and do what he says, then she flies. I wouldn't mind giving her a whole week off, she deserves it, but fuck, right when I needed her most...”

“Are you sure you're not pissed more about the fact that you fear she'll end like your Mum?” Whitney asked softly. Ashlyn puffed, fixing her eyes on the TV screen. “Eric's not Curtis, Ash... you've got nothing to fear.”

“They all start so soft, Whit. Anyway, she can do whatever she wants with her life, she's a big girl. And I've got football, beer, and a horrible reading material ahead.”

“So you got the book?” Nick asked. “Nice done!”

As Elizabeth Tassel had told her, Bombyx Mori was a perverse book, set in a folkloric no-man’s-land in which the eponymous hero (a young writer of genius that Ashlyn was fairly sure was meant to be Owen) set out from an island populated by inbred idiots too blind to recognize his talent on what seemed to be a largely symbolic journey towards a distant city. The first familiar character to emerge from the densely written and frequently obscene sentences was Leonora Quine. As the brilliant young Bombyx journeyed through a landscape populated by various dangers and monsters he came across Succuba, a woman described succinctly as a ‘wellworn whore’, who captured and tied him up and succeeded in raping him.

Ashlyn scowled at that, making a disgusted face as she sipped her beer and glanced at the game, that was boring so far. Then, she returned to the book. Leonora was described to the life: thin and dowdy, with her large glasses and her flat, deadpan manner. After being systematically abused for several days, Bombyx persuaded Succuba to release him. She was so desolate at his departure that Bombyx agreed to take her along: the first example of the story’s frequent strange, dream-like reversals, whereby what had been bad and frightening became good and sensible without justification or apology.

A few pages further on, Bombyx and Succuba were attacked by a creature called the Tick, which Ashlyn recognized easily as Elizabeth Tassel: squarejawed, deep-voiced and frightening. Once again Bombyx took pity on the thing once it had finished violating him, and permitted it to join him. The Tick had an unpleasant habit of suckling from Bombyx while he slept. He started to become thin and weak. Bombyx’s gender appeared strangely mutable. Quite apart from his apparent ability to breast-feed, he was soon showing signs of pregnancy, despite continuing to pleasure a number of apparently nymphomaniac women who strayed regularly across his path.

Wading through ornate obscenity, Ashlyn wondered how many portraits of real people she wasn't seeing. The violence of Bombyx’s encounters with other humans was disturbing; their perversity and cruelty left barely an orifice unviolated; it was a sadomasochistic frenzy. Yet Bombyx’s essential innocence and purity were a constant theme, the simple statement of his genius apparently all the reader needed to absolve him of the crimes in which he colluded as freely as the supposed monsters around him. As she turned the pages, Ashlyn remembered Jerry talking about how Owen was mentally ill, and started to feel sympathetic with his view.

Arsenal almost scored, and Ashlyn was distracted for twenty minutes shouting at the TV and supporting her team, cheering on as they got to 1-1. At half time, and with a sigh of resignation, she returned to the bizarre world of Owen Quine’s imagination. Bombyx drew close to the city that was his destination. Here, on a bridge over the moat that surrounded the city walls, stood a large, shambling and myopic figure: the Cutter. The Cutter sported a low cap instead of horn-rimmed glasses, and carried a wriggling, bloodstained sack over his shoulder. Bombyx accepted the Cutter’s offer to lead him, Succuba and the Tick to a secret door into the city. Inured by now to sexual violence, Ashlyn was unsurprised that the Cutter turned out to be intent on Bombyx’s castration. In the ensuing fight, the bag rolled off the Cutter’s back and a dwarfish female creature burst out of it. The Cutter let Bombyx, Succuba and the Tick escape while he pursued the dwarf; Bombyx and his companions managed to find a chink in the city’s walls and looked back to see the Cutter drowning the little creature in the moat.

Ashlyn heard Nick curse and looked up. She was so engrossed she hadn't heard the Arsenal go down 3-1, and she cursed along with Nick, while Whitney looked sympathetically at them and the Spurs won. Shaking her head and feeling disappointed, Ashlyn contemplated the prospect of the final quarter of Quine’s manuscript with distaste, feeling much sympathy for Elizabeth Tassel, who had skimmed the final passages. Deciding she had had enough, Ashlyn asked Nick's help to do the rehabilitation exercises for her leg, and finished the rest of the book with the family cat on her lap while lying down in bed.

Then, tiredly, threw the manuscript away, feeling she had poisoned herself and needed new eyes and perhaps, a new self to decontaminate. Her phone buzzed then and she saw many calls and a few texts from Lisbeth and Ali's. She eliminated Lisbeth's without a second glance, deleted Ali's missing call notices, and then went to Ali's one text, of that morning.

' **Since you won't answer my calls, I assume I'm still in for Monday's tailing in the morning, so I won't see you at the office. I hope last night went well. I was trying to get a hold of you to hear what happened, but it's OK. I'll see you whenever possible, then. Happy Sunday x.** _'_

Ashlyn let out a long sigh before pressing the call button with less than zero desire to actually speak with Ali. On the fourth ring, Ali answered.

“Hi,” said Ali, sounding shy, as if she still feared Ashlyn might explode, “how was last night?”

“I've got _Bombyx Mori_ ,” Ashlyn announced, sounding tired and monotone.

“Great! So does it live up to its reputation?”

“It's worse than its reputation,” Ashlyn said, eyeing the book. “We need to talk, Ali.”

She said it with such seriousness, that she wasn't surprised about hearing Ali suck air in, although she didn't regret her tone.

“You won't fire me, will you?” Ali murmured in fear.

“Of course not,” Ashlyn said right away. “I just want to make sure you know why I'm pissed, and I want to make sure you won't expect me to simply forget it, because unfortunately I'm not that kind of person. And it's not a matter of apologizing more, it's just... let me forget it. If I ignored your calls was because I was busy, but that's all.”

“I know, I fucked it all up... I know. We could meet somewhere. I'll take you out wherever you want...”

“No,” Ashlyn said. “I was supposed to be working outside and I can't because I can feel my knee starting to have a bit too much. It's not healed yet, it'll need a third surgery if I don't do a proper recovery now.”

“I'll do whatever you were going to do—,”

“I'm not putting you to work on a Sunday.”

“It's the least I should be doi—,”

“I'm firm in my ethics, Ali. Your contract says Sundays free, and I stand by it.”

“You're really mad, aren't you?” Ali's voice sounded small, sad, and Ashlyn sighed.

“I'm disappointed. Very disappointed. And worried this is going to happen more.”

“It won't, I promise.”

“You cannot promise that. You're going to marry to a guy who dislikes what you do,” Ashlyn said. “And I bet he still doesn't know you plan on becoming a detective. When he finds out, it's just going to get worse. He'll be furious, and you're not going to let your marriage sink. It'll come before work, always, as it should.”

“Ashlyn, I told him last night. Like you said, I told him everything and... well it was a big fight, but now he's being a sweetie, saying he wants to support me, and I believe him. So it won't happen again, I promise.”

“And I wish I could believe you,” the detective sighed, closing her eyes and throwing her head against the pillows. “Look, I'm not saying you shouldn't do these things. If you ask me a week off, any day, chances are I'll say yes without thinking twice, because you deserve it. But if I'm going to train you to be my partner, I need to feel I can count on you as my partner when I need it most, with biggie cases like this, because Quine's been gone for a fortnight and chances are someone killed him, one of the many people he's pissed off. And I don't play around with murders, Ali. If you are my partner, you need to make me feel you've got my back, every single minute of the week, even at three in the morning on a Sunday, and I'll do the same, because this would be the second murder in a month and a half, and we might know the killer, we might've spoken with them, and they might go after any of us. And if we're alone, they'll knife us good, but if we can count on each other—,”

“You can count on me, Ash, I swear. I know the risks. I told you, this is what I want.”

“Then don't bail on me at the last minute, Ali, not when we're playing with fucking fire handling possible murder cases. You need to get your home in order, because I can't count on you if your personal life is a mess, just like I doubt you felt much confidence in me when I lived in the office, right? I'm telling you I know what that is like, thanks to Beth I know all on nightmarish relationships, and my job was always a source of conflict, but I chose it over someone who didn't deserve me. I'm sure Eric's not as bad as Beth, so make sure he's in your corner because you're going to need him to support you, you'll crumble if you have to deal with this job and then battle him daily at home.”

“I know, I'm taking care of that...”

“Good,” Ashlyn said firmly. “Because you have the luxury of going home to your family if you go broke, you have Eric to help sustain you financially, but my life is this agency, Ali, and I need a partner who compromises at least half as intensely. I've sacrificed everything for this job, I have to live with my friends because every penny I get goes into the agency, and I don't have parents or a brother to run to,” she added calmly. “I can't run back to Cornwall, where there's no job waiting for me, and stay at my grandparents' house with the age I've got. So I cannot let this agency sink. I really cannot afford that. So if you want to be a partner, act like such, even when it means having to confront your husband sometimes. I'm sorry this job is shit for personal life and romance, but that's police work for you, and that's what you asked for.”

“I know, I'm going to be the person you need there, it won't be a problem.”

“Good. When you're back from tailing tomorrow, I got you some reading material.”

  
  


  
  



	23. Talgarth Road

When Monday came, Ashlyn arrived at the office early on Monday, while Ali was out tailing. She sat to work at her desk for a couple hours and was about to prepare her second mug of tea when the door opened.

“Good morning!” Ali's voice came. Ashlyn pulled another mug from the closet over the kitchenette sink, and filled it for her.

“Good morning, how was tailing?” Ashlyn asked passing Ali her mug.

“Thanks,” Ali sipped, and Ashlyn stopped to contemplate her. She had her hair back in a high ponytail, and wore jeans, a jumper and flat foots. Ashlyn had told her once that there was no need to come overly elegant, and better she was comfortable for tailings and all. “It was okay, the usual Monday, took some photos... he's gonna have to accept his girlfriend is not a cheater,” she said handing Ashlyn the agency's little camera from her pocket.

“Agreed,” Ashlyn put the camera in Ali's drawer and handed her the _Bombyx Mori_ manuscript, that laid on the assistant's desk. Ali squealed.

“ _Bombyx Mori_ at last!”

“Don't sound too excited, you'll regret it,” Ashlyn warned. “It's the shittiest, most disgusting, gore piece of crap I've ever read. But now I get why like, fifty people would want him dead. He drags everyone, not even his wife is spared.”

“You're calling police today, right?”

“I don't know. Haven't decided yet, gotta call Leonora first.”

“I've been thinking this weekend... what if he never wrote this?”

“What do you mean? His agent, the publisher, everyone who knows him... they all recognize this is his style, what he'd write.”

“I know it's absurd, but... if he's dead, if someone killed him, it would make sense for them to also write this, plan it so everyone thinks he just left, and to get people to hate him so much no one cares about what happened to him,” Ali explained. Ashlyn frowned in concentration, nodding slowly. “I don't know, just a silly thought of mine. What else have we got?”

“Remember Joe North, the friend who died from Aids?” Ashlyn asked, and Ali nodded. “He left his house jointly to Michael Fancourt and Owen Quine. Nina thinks the house sold, because they wouldn't want to co-own anything. I want to check that out, so while you were out, I called Leonora to ask about the house, it's in Talgarth Road, left to them in the eighties. And, Leonora said Fancourt never let them sell it, out of spire. She doesn't think Owen's there but I want to check it still, even if she says he hates it, that he's never gone nearby, that's horrible, old, empty. She may have the key, so I'm going now to grab it, I just wanted to see you first and let you know.”

“Wait, but what happened at the party?” Ali asked, while Ashlyn was already grabbing her coat. “Wait, I can go with you, can I? We'll catch up, what if Owen's there and gets violent? You'll need help. And there isn't that much to do here today...”

Ashlyn stood there, doubting, but finally nodded and gestured with the hand for her to follow. As they took several Tubes, Ashlyn told her everything about Saturday evening's party and the book Ali had been unable to read just yet, deciphering characters. The Quine's family home was in Southern Row, a quiet back street of small brick houses, a short walk from a pub called Chilled Eskimo. The frontage of the house was dilapidated, and the gate only hung by one hinge.

“You were quick,” was Leonora's gruff greeting. “Come in.”

Both younger women followed the older down a dim, narrow hallway. To the left, a door stood ajar and they could see an untidy and dirty study, clearly the writer's work place. Leonora showed them at least a dozen ringless keys on the table, saying she didn't know if any of those were the right one, but those were the only ones she could find.

“What number in Talgarth Road, Mrs Quine?” asked Ali while Ashlyn examined the keys.

“Hundred and seventy-nine.”

“When were you there last?” asked Ashlyn then.

“I've never had the slightest interest to go, it was silly to leave it to Owen and Fancourt. Joe said it was so they'd write in it, but they haven't used it once. I had Orlando around the same time, so I had other things to do.”

Ashlyn frowned, confused. She expected Orlando to be a little girl, and by the way Ali looked at her, she wasn't the only one surprised.

“Orlando was born in the eighties?” Ashlyn asked, as gently as possible.

“She was born in the eighty-six,” so she was only a year younger than Ali, “but she's handicapped. Upstairs sulking now, cos I had to tell her off... she nicks things. She knows it's wrong but she still does it all the time. She doesn't steal cos of the money, just because she likes the colour, or something about it calls her attention. She knows it's wrong.”

“I see,” Ashlyn nodded in understanding. “Is it okay if I try all these keys then?”

“Sure, but he won't be there.”

The detective and her assistant marched then, going along a road that curved. As they walked together, still discussing the manuscript, Ali lifted a hand to remove a leaf that had fallen on Ashlyn's head, acting on impulse. As she turned her head to see the leaf and grab it, she saw something through her peripheral vision.

“Ash,” Ali said then in a whisper, looking ahead, “someone's walking behind us.”

“Welcome to London,” Ashlyn answered with a smirk.

“I mean, they're wearing a black hoodie. It's not rainy today.”

“Don't worry, look ahead. It'll be fine.”

But a few meters later, Ashlyn glanced up at the houses in a way that made it easy for her to glance sideways at the figure behind them. The dark coat they wore was shapeless, but the short, quick steps gave her the impression that it was a female, and there was something odd in her walking. This figure lacked the self-preoccupation of the lone stroller on a cold day, she didn't have a steady pace towards a destination either, and kept adjusting her speed in tiny but, to Ashlyn, noticeable increments, and she kept her face hidded by the hood.

They were being followed.

“They're following, right?” Ali murmured, as if guessing her thoughts. Ashlyn nodded.

“In my office, Leonora described being followed by someone just like this person, I think it's a woman. See that doesn't matter if we change our speed, the space between us remains constant?”

“She controls exactly where we are.”

“Yes, but she's evidently not an expert. Didn't your surveillance course taught you to do better than her?”

“I'd have taken the other pavement, perhaps faked with my phone...” Ali proposed.

“Exactly. Let's have some fun, look,” unexpectedly, Ashlyn pulled her against the wall, so Ali's back pressed against the façade. She saw the detective smirk before putting a hand on the wall over her head and leaning, turning her head towards Ali so their follower could only see the back of her head. “Put your arms around me, as if we were snogging.”

“What?” but Ali did so, and feeling Ashlyn's breathing in her cheek, she stared at her hazel eyes. Her face blocked the view of the woman and Ali couldn't hear her walking. “She's stopped.”

“She has,” Ashlyn smiled, amused. “See? You don't need to worry. We caught her off guard this easily.”

“Are we going to do something about it then? Confront her?”

“Yes. Westbourne Park station is not far. Let's see if our friend joins us.”

Turning into the station, they drew quickly to the far side of the entrance, waiting for her, out of sight. A few seconds later, Ashlyn got a glimpse of the tall woman jogging towards the entrance, obviously scared that she might have missed them, that they had gotten on a train already.

“Here,” Ashlyn pushed Ali softly to a side and prepared to jump to their follower. She took a confident step to face her, and as she threw an arm out to grab her, she saw the woman lift a leg to kick her rehabilitating leg, so she jumped back to avoid it, lost her footing and landed on her back undignified, and landing painfully on his back. Ali yelled and ran after the woman, who ran towards the train, and Ashlyn lied there in shock. “What the royal fuck was that, Ashlyn?” Ashlyn snapped to herself, sitting up and rubbing the back of her head, as the room spun a little.

“Are you all right?” Ali was back, breathless, offering a hand to help her get up, which Ashlyn took. “She got in the train, couldn't stop her.”

“Fuck, she knew about my knee, she went for it and I just reacted on instinct trying to protect it... floor's wet!”

Ali looked down and nodded.

“Yeah, must've rained a little last night and people dragged it in on their shoes. You OK though?”

“My knee is,” Ashlyn, standing up and helping herself on her crutch, tried to put some weight in it, and saw her condition hadn't worsened. Her back and head hurt a little, but nothing she could do about it. “She hasn't taken the train to Hammersmith, right?”

“No, opposite direction, first train that appeared, really. Let's go grab the train ourselves, we have a house to see and at least, she's not after us for today.”

They took the train to Hammersmith, where they changed towards Barons Court, made their way out of the ticket hall, both feeling relieved as Talgarth Road came to view, and with it,very close to them, the house they looked for. By then, the sky had filled with clouds all of the sudden, and they didn't have umbrellas with themselves this time, so they hurried to the row of old houses in dark red bricks.

Ashlyn stood in the white front steps, and one by one tried the keys with fingers that were getting cold and numb. The fourth one worked as if it did its job every day, and the door slid open.

“Stay behind me, and keep an ear out,” Ashlyn murmured, walking inside. The moment she had had two steps inside, she stopped firm and Ali collided with her back. “OUT!”

“What?”

Like a slap in the face, the smell made Ashlyn immediately drag her coat collar up over her nose and mouth, and she unceremoniously pushed Ali outside and exited after her, taking a deep breath as she closed the door without locking it yet.

“You need to stay here,” Ashlyn said. Ali frowned, confused.

“Why? Is this about Saturday now? You just said I could—,”

“This isn't about bloody Saturday. There's something inside, something chemical, sharp... I smelled it, you didn't have time. I think it's something acid, corrosive... better you don't smell it, could damage your longs. Stay here, I'll go and check it out.”

Ali paled and nodded.

“Be careful.”

Ashlyn entered, closing after her, pressing her collar against her mouth and nose with one of her big hands. On the wall beside her she found a switch, and the narrow hallway illuminated. At first glance it was serene and gracious, but with narrowed eyes, Ashlyn slowly took in the wide, burn-like stains on the original woodwork. A corrosive, acrid fluid that made the air burn, had been splashed everywhere in what seemed to have been an act of wanton vandalism; it had stripped varnish from the aged floorboards, blasted the patina off the bare wood stairs ahead, even been thrown over the walls so that large patches of painted plaster were bleached and discoloured.

The place felt too warm for an uninhabited house as well. The heating had been cranked up high, and this made the fierce chemical smell waft more pungently than if it had been left to disperse in the chill day. Looking down, Ashlyn realized there was a smattering of takeaway menus and an envelope addressed TO THE OCCUPIER/CARETAKER. She picked it up, and saw it was a brief, angry handwritten note, from the next-door neighbour, complaining about the smell.

Ashlyn let the note fall back to the doormat and moved into the house, observing carefully where the chemical substance had been thrown to avoid touching it. She opened several dark and empty rooms that didn't have traces of the bleach-like substance, except for the kitchen, that was completely doused in it, so Ashlyn decided to head up the stairs. The vicious, corrosive substance had spattered everywhere, making it hard to avoid it. On the first floor, Ashlyn came to a halt. Even through the thick wool of her overcoat she could smell something else that the industrial chemical couldn't mask. Sweet, putrid, rancid. Death.


	24. New Scotland Yard

With this being the second time Ashlyn found herself in New Scotland Yard at the insistence of the Met, it occurred to her that like in the last time, she had had sex shortly before coming too.

While Ali was made to wait outside in a waiting room, Ashlyn awaited in a room hardly bigger than the average office's stationery cupboard. The horror of what she had seen hadn't left her yet. Obviously with her job she had seen bodies a hundred times, bodies bearing horrific traces of attempts to disguise the cruelty to which they had been subjected before death; she had seen men, women and children maimed and dismembered. Yet what she had just seen was entirely new. The malignity of what had been done there had been almost orgiastic, a carefully calibrated display of sadistic showmanship. Worst to contemplate was the order in which acid had been poured, the body disembowelled. Had Quine been alive or dead while this killer laid out place settings around him?

Ashlyn wished she was amongst the men in full-body protective suits gathering forensic evidence from Owen Quine's body. She was now burning with professional frustration, shut out from the moment police had arrived, relegated to a mere blunderer who had stumbled onto the scene. And it really was a scene in more ways than one. The body had been arranged like a sacrifice to some demonic power. Ashlyn had had to arrive to the top floor of the house, each step feeling worse and worse as the smell worsened, and then she had entered a room full of flies and she, who had seen death hundreds of times, had been disarmed to a point she hadn't been able to explain to Ali.

There had been only a carcass of a body. Trussed, stinking and rotting, empty and gutted, lying on the floor instead of hanging from a metal hook where it surely belonged. It looked like a slaughtered pig, but had human clothing. A giant Romanesque window had illuminated it, making it look like it was in a temple. There had been seven plates and seven sets of cutlery around the decomposing body as though it were a gigantic joint of meat, the torso had been slit from throat to pelvis, the intestines gone. Fabric and flesh had been burned away over the corpse, heightening the vile impression that it had been cooked and feasted upon. Four hissing radiators were hastening the decay.

The rotted face had been near the window, with a single burned-out eye socket visible, making Ashlyn happier and happier that Ali hadn't seen anything. And despite Ashlyn's long experience, she had vomited the moment she had left the house, after having quickly told Ali they had to call 999.

And now in the interrogation room, Ashlyn was sure they wanted to prolong her time there due to animosity, because they had been pissed at her since she made them look stupid after solving the Lula Landry case. She had humiliated them and very publicly. But if they thought they were inconveniencing her, they were wrong. She wasn't intimidated, had nowhere else to be, and had been fed a decent meal by the police. She was actually comfortable, and had been driven there instead of having to go out in the rain that had started, which left her closer to Whitney and Nick's, that Ali would call. She had told Ali not to wait for her, that it'd be long, but she knew Ali would be there, whichever the hour it was, when she was released. She had already been questioned for an hour, she had water, she was okay.

“Ash, you really like it here, don't you?” Abby Wambach appeared, to Ashlyn's intense relief, and they hugged.

“Abby! How's Ali?”

“She's okay, just waiting outside with Whitney, but I told them you don't need a lawyer, I pulled rank to handle this one. You're not popular here, as you know, but lucky for you...” Abby pointed at her with her thumbs, grinning smugly.

Years before, when Abby was her boss in the Navy before her retirement, Ashlyn had saved her life. They had been under fire in a ship, and Ashlyn had seen someone about to shoot Abby from behind while she was busy shooting someone else. They had been caught by surprise in an ambush and Abby hadn't been wearing a bulletproof jacket, while Ashlyn had, so Ashlyn had thrown herself in the middle, taking the bullet for Abby while simultaneously taking down the shooter. The bullet had gone straight to her chest, the impact strong enough to fracture her sternum, and it had required surgery, even though the bullet hadn't passed through the bulletproof jacket. It was just to put a metal plaque under the bone so it could heal properly. That day, other comrades had died, but Abby had married two weeks later, thanks to Ashlyn, and had never forgotten it.

“So, this is Owen Quine, right?” Abby sat with her, taking notes. “I just have to go through it once more, mate. When did you say Mrs Quine hired you?”

Ashlyn told her everything she knew, and in the end Abby was frowning.

“What?”

“You don't see how this looks like?”

“Like?”

“Ash, what if Mrs Quine did it? You told me the other day as well, Quine was a jerk, a cheater, she didn't call us, he had a girlfriend, he humiliated her, left her and her daughter, never mentioned the house—,”

“She forgot about the house, you would too if you had a house for twenty years and you hadn't seen it once,” Ashlyn said defensively, feeling she had a soft spot for the woman. “And things are difficult at home, she's been begging me to bring Owen back to take care of their disabled daughter, she wouldn't kill the jerk, she needs him and she's... she's a danger to herself, Abby. She's like a little kid. Without Owen, she's going to need someone to take care of them and help them.” She said pleadingly. “I believe her, I know she's innocent.”

“Ashlyn, I know how you feel about—,”

“Don't patronize me,” Ashlyn said harshly. “You know I'm professional and I've got a good instinct. I know she's completely innocent, and if you jail her I won't hesitate to leave the Met in ridiculous again proving her innocence with all I've got, friendship aside.”

Abby's blue eyes fixed on her filled with understanding and she nodded slowly.

“How did you get that manuscript?”

“Unofficially, at a party on Saturday. But you cannot write that,” Ashlyn said, putting a hand over her notebook. “The Met cannot know.”

“That could be a problem.”

“Or not. Has she been told?”

“Yes.”

Ashlyn had been thinking, during her long time there, about what Leonora was facing. Opening the door to the police officer or officers, the first thrill of alarm at the sight of the uniform, the hammer blow dealt to the heart by the calm, understanding, sympathetic invitation to retire indoors; the horror of the pronouncement. She had lived that.

“Okay. Sign this and you can go, my turn just finished so we'll take the girls for a well-deserved drink, don't you think?”

“Certainly, they've been here for hours.”

As soon as they reached Ali and Heather, who sat with tired and tense expressions outside, Ali jumped to her feet and hugged her. Ashlyn smiled and patted her back.

“It's okay, it was just an interrogation, they needed the finder's statement.”

“Why did they have to give you such a hard time?” Ali asked, separating.”

“My mates don't quite love her,” Abby checked her watch. “What do you ladies think if we go for a pint? I think after seeing that body I'll need at least two.”

“Do you have those fags on you?” Ashlyn asked Ali. But right then, Ashlyn's phone rang and she answered the call. “Ashlyn Harris.”

“It's me, Leonora.”

Ashlyn locked eyes with Ali, who right away knew who it was, judging by her saddened expression. They had really been looking forward to finding Owen and returning him to Orlando, for one thing he did right.

“I'm very sorry, Leonora,” said Ashlyn.

“You all right?” she asked gruffly. Ashlyn was both incredibly touched and surprised.

“Me? I'm fine...”

“They ain't giving you a hard time? They said you was being interviewed. I told them I asked you to find him, that you had nothing to do with it, they didn't have to arrest you.”

Ashlyn, double touched, smiled soft, looking down and feeling her eyes get a bit glassy.

“Thank you, I really do appreciate it. But you shall not worry about me, okay? I'm fine, I wasn't actually arrested, just giving a statement.”

“But they've kept you all this time...”

“How d'you know—,?”

“I'm here. Just in the lobby. I wanna see you, I made 'hem bring me.”

Astonished further, Ashlyn said the first thing that came to her mind.

“Who's looking after Orlando?”

“Edna, my neighbour. When are they gonna let you go?”

“I'm just going downstairs now. Give me two minutes,” she hung up and looked astonished at her friends. “Leonora's here, give me just ten minutes with her?”

Leonora Quine was flanked by two uniformed officers, looking thin and mousy, with her limp hair in combs, her old coat wrapped around her and an air of still wearing bedroom slippers even though her feet were clad in scuffed black shoes. While her friends waited outside, Ashlyn put a gentle hand on her shoulder and took her to a corner. Dry-faced and matter-of-fact, Leonora seemed relieved to see Ashlyn.

“Of course she had to look like pity,” Abby murmured to Heather and Ali. “Now I get Ashlyn's protectiveness.” Heather hummed and nodded in agreement.

“Why'd they keep you so long?” Leonora asked Ashlyn with maternal concern, as they sat on a bench along the wall.

“How are you?” Ashlyn asked gently.

“Dunno,” Leonora shrugged, looking down. “I can't believe it. Never thought he'd go there... I s'pose some burglar got in and done it. He should've gone to a hotel like always, shouldn't he?”

Ashlyn knew Mrs Quine was more shocked than she knew herself. Coming to her was the disorientated action of somebody who did not know what else to do, except turn to the one person who was supposed to be helping her. Ashlyn knew very well how it felt to get these news.

“I can take you home if you want,” Ashlyn offered.

“They'll give me a lift,” Leonora pointed to the officers with her head. “I just wanted to check you were all right,” Ashlyn released a long breath feeling so much sadness and sympathy for this woman who was being so kind to her, “I didn't want to get you in trouble...” Leonora added, and released a sniffle. “You were just helping us out...”

“It's okay,” Ashlyn kept around her shoulders one firm arm, and maintained a soft, gentle tone of voice. “I'm all right, you caused me no trouble. I'll find out who did it. I'll help the police.”

“I know they think I did it,” said Leonora, looking up at her with glassy, lost, monkey eyes, and an expression of pure abandonment and solitude, once more giving Ashlyn a strong sense of deja vu. “You know I didn't, right?”

“I know,” Ashlyn confirmed with a nod.

“They've gone over Owen's studio and all... will keep registering...”

“It's just the normal stuff, don't you worry too much. I'll find out who did it.” Leonora seemed relieved every time Ashlyn said she'd help, she'd figure it out.

“You're better than them, that's why I wanted you in the first place.”

Ashlyn nodded slowly.

“I won't fail you, I promise,” Ashlyn compromised. “Does... Orlando know what's happened?”

“I told her,” Leonora's eyes filled with tears now, and one slid silently down her cheek. “But I don't know if she understands what really happened. She said it was like Mr Poop, our cat, that was run over. Couldn't tell her he was killed.”

The detective nodded and reached to squeeze her hand.

“I'm sure she'll be all right. She's got you. A mother's always a comforting presence when the world is the coldest.”

Leonora agreed with a hum, and rubbed her eyes with her free hand.

“Anyway, I should go back to Orlando. I'm glad you're all right.”

They stood up again, and Ashlyn asked the officer to please take the woman home. The officer looked surprised, but one look at Abby was enough to get her to agree.

“One last thing, Leonora,” Ashlyn said, taking her hand for one moment and coming closer, “you're doing a great job, okay? You're a great mother, and Orlando needs you. So... one day at a time, and you'll see it'll get better. You'll both be okay. And if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Leonora looked surprised, and she hugged her briefly.

“You got more heart than all of them.” Leonora said.

“If the world was filled with more people like you, perhaps they'd have better hearts too,” Ashlyn smiled small, and gave her one squeeze before releasing her. “I'll visit you tomorrow, get some rest.”

The officers took Leonora outside, and Ashlyn returned to her friends, taking a deep breath to calm herself, and using her crutch for extra support.

“Will she be okay?” Ali asked looking sad.

“Yeah...” Ashlyn nodded. “She was worried about me. 'Cause she's a good person.” She added, looking matter-of-factly at Abby.

“Careful, Ash,” Abby murmured as they passed the revolving doors to the now fresh, dry evening, “it's murder now, she's a suspect.”

“I know perfectly well, Abster,” Ashlyn retorted as they walked outside, accepting the promised cigarette from Ali, who lit one for herself as well, as they four walked to the closest pub.

  
  



	25. Psychology and practise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!

**Chapter 25: Psychology and practice.**

When Ashlyn came to the office that morning, she found Ali curled up in the sofa reading _Investigative Interviewing: Psychology and Practice_ , a book the assistant had bought online. She had previously devoured the _Bombyx Mori_ manuscript overnight, skipping all the gory parts, that she only glanced at, and had a paper on her desk with the list of characters and the real people she had identified each represented. Ashlyn smiled seeing her so engrossed in the book she barely murmured 'Good morning' in response to hers. Ali had deep bags under her eyes. The night before, Eric had been on the phone for an hour with her mother, who wasn't feeling so well lately, and then they had rowed because Eric interpreted that her reading the manuscript while he was on the phone was a statement that she didn't give a shit about her soon-to-be mother-in-law.

Ashlyn quietly made tea both both of them and handed Ali a mug. Ali took it in one hand, holding the book with the other, and after a glance at the manuscript analysis Ali had on her desk, Ashlyn joined her in the sofa. It was still early, before opening hour, and without thinking twice, Ashlyn took one of Ali's feet, that was inside a leotard, as the assistant wore a skirt today, and put it on her lap, massaging it with one hand while looking thoughtful and holding her mug in the other. It felt so natural that she didn't think of how proper that was, with her being the boss, and Ali glanced at her, but smiled small in approval as their eyes met over the book.

“Sorry?” Ashlyn asked.

“It's okay,” Ali whispered, going back to the book. A soft drizzle was falling outside. “I could use a feet rub.”

They sat like that for a while, until after about ten minutes, Ali put down the book and glanced at Ashlyn, who had closed her eyes and thrown her head backwards, but wasn't asleep. Her hand held her mug of tea firmly, and the other was still rubbing circles in Ali's foot with her thumb.

“We're friends, right?” Ali asked, and Ashlyn looked up at her, surprised by the question. “I mean, I know we've only know each other for near two months, but... we have an intense work and relationship. Surely we're friends.”

“Of course we're friends,” Ashlyn said matter-of-fact. “Why are you saying this now?”

Ali had slept on the sofa that night, as they only had ne bedroom at the house. That same night, she had realized before working for Ashlyn, she had always been the first to back down in a row, to apologize, but her conciliatory nature seemed to have been warped by the job now. And she knew Eric felt that too, and that it angered him. Last night, he had recriminated her for more things than one, and the support he had professed to her only forty-eight hours previously had vanished.

“Why does this case touch home so much to you?” Ali asked.

“It doesn't...” But Ali raised her eyebrows in incredulity, and Ashlyn sighed. “Fine. My mother killed herself.”

The fact that the assistant suspected it had to be something like that didn't make her less sad to hear it, although it did make her less shocked. She gave Ashlyn's shoulder a gentle squeeze and the detective nodded.

“Was she anything like Leonora?” she asked softly.

“They were two different worlds. But Mum was equally a fantastic mother, who always put her children first, who tried to leave Curtis... losing her son shattered her into depression, even more as Curtis treated her like he did,” Ashlyn explained, and Ali felt chills hearing her talk about it as if she was talking of the weather, in the way people who had endured hell often did, because they had to normalize it. For them, it was normal, after all. “After he tried to kill her, she was in hospital, I stayed with the Ellacotts here in London, but when I visited I saw she was more and more sad... I never wanted to go to uni. I refused, 'cause I wanted to stay home and take care of her. But we were infinitely poor, Curtis left a ton of debt and bad reputation that was hard to shake off, and my shitty jobs and football couldn't support my Mum, who also had to work shitty jobs day and night. I knew I was between the sword and the wall, 'cause unless I got a proper education, I'd never be able to afford my Mum the life I wanted for her. So I got a scholarship, I left her in Cornwall, where family could look out for her... I was home by Christmas, Chris' anniversary. Mum went to have a bath, and she took so long I barged in,” Ashlyn shrugged. “She cut herself. She had been bleeding out for hours, while I worked on something to bring to Christmas family lunch. I tried to save her. I couldn't. And off I went to the Navy 'cause I had nothing left to lose.”

Ashlyn looked at Ali straight in the eye after she finished, and seeing no pity, she felt relieved. Ali was looking at her comprehensive, gentle. In one swift movement, she had pressed both heels on the sofa on the other side of Ashlyn's thighs, and dragged herself to slide until her arse touched Ashlyn's legs and she could wrap her arms around the detective.

“I'm okay, Ali,” Ashlyn said with a small smile.

“I know,” Ali murmured against her neck. “I just hate you've gone through so much.”

“A lot of people have had it way worse,” Ashlyn said, and they separated slowly. “Besides, it's not all so bad. My past makes me kinder, and God knows how much Leonora needed the personality shit gave me. My Mum, on her last years... she was helpless, lonely, sad, powerless... lot like Leonora, I suppose. Alone with a young daughter as well. And with the world falling on her shoulders as well. But if her death gave me a sense of sympathy with Leonora, then it wasn't for nothing.”

Ali forced a small smile.

“The best people are the ones who had it worse,” Ali half-shrugged. “And talking about those who had it worse,” she stood up and walked to the manuscript on her table, “did you realize Bombyx died just like Owen? I skim-read it, but... I'm pretty sure the killer copied the ending.”

“I thought about that too. Tied up, guts torn out, something acidic poured over him. In the book they eat him.”

“Knives and forks...”

“Exactly,” without thinking, Ashlyn pulled her mobile out of her pocket, stood up, and brought up the photos she had taken of the crime scene. Then she caught sight of Ali's frightened expression and remembered Ashlyn had kept Ali away for a reason. “Sorry, forgot—,”

“Give it to me,” she said with sudden determination, challenging. What had she forgotten? That she was not trained, not a policewoman or a soldier? She wanted to live up to her momentary forgetfulness. She wanted to step up, to be more than she was. “I want to see,” she lied.

Ashlyn blinked in surprise, but handed over the telephone with obvious misgivings.

Ali had only heard from her mouth what she had seen, and Ashlyn had kept things as PG-16 as she could. She did not flinch, but as she stared at the open hole in the cadaver's chest and stomach, her own insides seemed to shrink in horror. Raising her mug to her lips, Ali found that she did not want to drink. Or eat. Perhaps ever. The worst was the angled close-up of the face, eaten away by whatever had been poured on it, blackened and with that burned-out eye socket...

The plates struck her as an obscenity. Ashlyn had zoomed in on one of them; the place setting had been meticulously arranged.

“My God,” Ali said at last, handing the phone back. “That's what I read, definitely. God... Whoever did this is no John Bristow, this is... this is really sick.” Her mobile rang and she pulled it out of the handbag on her desk. Seeing it was Eric, and still furious at him, she pressed 'ignore'. “How many people do you think have read this book?”

“Could be hundreds by now. Fisher emailed bits of it all over town.”

Eric called again, and Ali repeated the process.

“The killer's likely to be someone who's in the—?”

“Not necessarily. But the people he's written about are going to be high on the list. Leonora and Kathryn Kent claim not to have read them, I believe Leonora, but Kathryn... she did write in her blog something like 'to see thee tortur'd would give me pleasure', didn't she?”

“Can't believe a woman would have done that.”

“Did you never hear about the Australian woman who skinned her lover, decapitated him, cooked his head and buttocks and tried to serve him up to his kids?”

“You're not serious.”

“I totally am, look it up in the net. When women turn, they really turn.”

“He was a big guy...”

“What if he trusted her? Maybe they met for sex.”

Ali nodded, conceding.

“Who do we know for sure has read it?” Ali asked then.

“Christian Fisher, Elizabeth Tassel, her assistant Ralph, Jerry Waldegrave, Daniel Chard... except Ralph and Fisher, they're all characters. Also Nina—,”

Ali's mobile rang for a third time, and Ashlyn raised her eyebrows at Ali.

“I'm sorry,” Ali's dark eyes gave her an apologetic look and she impatiently picked her mobile. “What, Eric?!” she snapped.

“Alexandra,” Eric's voice sounded congested. He never cried, and he had never shown himself particularly overcome by remorse at an argument.

“Yes?” she said, more gently.

“Mum's had another stroke. She's—,”

Ali's stomach dropped, and he started to cry.

“Eric?” she asked, anguished. “Sweetie, what...?”

“S' dead,” he said, like a little boy. Ali let a breath out and closed her eyes briefly. She had definitely lost her appetite.

“I'm coming. Where are you?”

Ashlyn could see the familiar tidings of death in Ali's face and felt her lungs stop working. She hoped it was nobody she loved, not her parents, not Kyle...

“All right,” Ali was saying, already putting her shoes back on. “Stay there, I'm coming,” she hung up and looked at Ashlyn. “Eric's mother has died.” She said, unable to believe it. “They were just talking last night... I'm so sorry, I...”

“Go,” said Ashlyn, feeling remorse from the relief that it wasn't Ali's direct family. “Tell him I'm sorry, will you?”

“Yeah...” said Ali, trying to fasten her handbag, her fingers grown clumsy in her agitation. She could hardly put on her raincoat, and Ashlyn stepped forward to help her. She had known Mrs Cunleaf since primary school. “Thanks. Be careful, okay? This murderer gives me the biggest chills.”

“Will do, don't you worry.”

Once Ali flew out the door, Ashlyn sighed, already missing her, and phoned Abby to tell her she'd be making a copy of the manuscript for her, telling her what was in the end that wrote the death.

  
  


  
  



	26. Chasing ghosts

**Chapter 26: Chasing ghosts.**

The next day, press was surrounding the office. Ashlyn went to the Quines' house and met Orlando, a young girl with curly light brown hair, an ingenuous expression, pale green eyes, and who wore a long sweatshirt or short dress that ended above bony knees and fluffy pink socks. Ashlyn learned in the large plush orang-utan she always carried with herself and that had Velcro attachments for like hidden pockets, actually hid everything Orlando stole.

She was very gentle and very sweet, but also odd. She slid in and out of rooms almost in complete silent, and nicked things. Jerry Waldegrave was also there, and Ashlyn's identity as detective was unmasked. He had come to feel better with himself, left quickly then, feeling guilty because Owen wasn't appreciated. The studio in which the writer worked had been registered and locked by the police, so they had had a mug of tea, and between questions, Ashlyn learned Mrs Quine hardly knew the people at Roper Chard, and hadn't been allowed to see him, so Ashlyn had to explain he had been there for a while, so it wasn't in best state to be seen, which Mrs Quine had complained of being unable to do.

Then, as Dodo -how Mrs Quine called her daughter- showed Ashlyn her paintings, Ashlyn had seen the daughter had great artistic talent, and that she drew on anything she could get hands on. Apparently her father gave her all sorts of papers to draw on. According to Mrs Quine, police had retrieved two old typewriter ribbons that had fallen down the back of the desk, so Quine hadn't taken them.

“Auntie Liz went in Daddy's study,” Orlando had said then.

“When?” her mother had demanded to know.

“When she came and you were in the loo.”

“Was she poking around?”

“No. She walked in and out, crying.”

“Yeah,” Leonora looked at Ashlyn then. “She was crying all the time. Another feeling guilty.”

But as they chatted, Ashlyn had also learned that the reason they could never sell Joe North's house, where Owen Quine's body had appeared, had to do with things he left written in his will about how it was to be used. And on another note, Leonora didn't believe her husband had written the parody over which Michael Fancourt's wife had killed herself.

Leonora had been unwell, with an upset stomach that kept her frequently visiting the bathroom, revealing how much she was suffering inside.

“Daddy didn't like Dannulchar,” Orlando had said during one of her mother's bathroom trips, after having heard them talk about him. “He told me.”

“Didn't he?” Ashlyn asked gently.

“He gave me a paintbrush, after he touched me.”

Ashlyn froze with her mug halfway to her lips, and Leonora, who was just coming back from the bathroom, paralysed and rushed to her.

“He did what?” Leonora asked.

“I didn't like him touching me.” Orlando said.

“When has Daniel Chard...?”

“At Daddy's work. When Daddy took me and I saw—,”

“He took her in a month ago or more, because I had a doctor's appointment,” Leonora told Ashlyn. “Don't know what she's on about...”

“I saw the pictures for the books that they put on, all coloured,” said Orlando. “And Dannulchard did touch—,”

“You don't even know who Daniel Chard is,” said her mother.

“He's got no hair. And after Daddy took me to see the lady an' I gave her my best picture. She had nice hair.”

“What lady?”

“When Dannulchar touched me!” Orlando said louder. “I shouted and after he gave me a paintbrush!”

“Don't go around saying things like that,” Leonora said, and her voice cracked.

Orlando had gotten very angry and stormed off, and Leonora had cried. She and Owen had met in a pub at the Hay-on-Wye festival, and despite the years of neglect and unhappiness that he had given her, years trying to pay bills and suffering his cheating, she still saw him as a hero, as it showed when she spoke to Ashlyn about him. They had had dog poo in the mail box once more since Ashlyn's last visit, the week before, and after Ashlyn worried about their economic situation, Leonora assured her they'll be okay, because Own had life insurance. Now that police remained at their doorstep, at least Ashlyn knew they were safe.

Ashlyn was on the news that day, and they implied she had something to do with the death, because she hadn't called police. But what truly interested the press was her own story.

Ali was gone for a couple days, up in Masham, where her family-in-law also lived, accompanying them through these hard moments, but coming while the funeral was organized or not. As they met for a pint on Thursday evening, Ali defined her mother-in-law, upon being asked if they got on well, as:

“Lovely.”

Even though in her head she was thinking of how difficult she was. How hypochondriac, how critical, such a judging person... but Ali now felt guilty thinking such things.

“What exactly is wrong with Orlando?” Ali asked.

“She's got learning difficulties,” Ashlyn had told her all about her encounter with the young girl. Ali had particularly disliked when she told her Orlando said she'd been touched by Daniel Chard. Ali still looked tense from that. “Look, he might've accidentally knocked into her. She goes off with the ease of a dog during an earthquake. And in the book, Quine implies Chard is gay.”

“And you believe him?” Ali sipped from her beer. Ashlyn observed she looked more tired and thinner lately.

“Chard wouldn't have sent lawyers if it hadn't upset him, and why would he be upset if it wasn't true?”

“On a side topic,” Ali said, eyeing her across the small wooden table around which they sat, “have you seen the constant theme in Quine's work? He's always about sexual duality. I've read a few of his books by now. _Hobart's Sin_ it's about a hermaphrodite.”

“There's one in _Bombyx Mori_ as well,” Ashlyn remembered, and Ali nodded as if she had already realized.

“His characters are always swapping gender or sexual orientation,” continued Ali. “So Chard may be gay or not, can't trust what Quine writes 100%. and I've been thinking about the killer. I did psychology in Uni, so I took some of my old books and—,”

“Psychology?” Ashlyn was positively impressed and surprised. “Oh, I'm always keen to hear from the psychologist, go on, sorry.” She added with enthusiasm. Ali half laughed.

“I'm not a psychologist.”

She had dropped out of her degree. Ashlyn had left when her mother had committed suicide, gone off to make a woman of herself and make some money and strength, and that was just one of the many things Ali knew of Ashlyn even though they had only known each other for a couple months. She knew from Ashlyn's friends that the detective was usually very reserved, despite having studied communication and interpersonal relationships, but for some reason Ashlyn always found it easy to open up with Ali. And although Ali did feel more inclined to talk with Ashlyn than with anyone else, including her fiancé, about her life and personal things, she had never felt strong enough to tell her why she dropped out of Oxford herself, nor wanted to speak to her about her personal issues with her boyfriend in the way that she spoke with long-time friends Christen and Kelley. There was something about Ashlyn being her boss that held her back; she wanted to make sure Ashlyn saw her as someone more similar to a warrior, because she wanted for Ashlyn to give her a chance to do bigger things that no one who knew her past thought she could do.

“I've just wondered why they made the murder so obviously related to the book,” said Ali. “On the surface it looks like a deliberate act of revenge and malice, to show the world that Quine had it coming for what he wrote.”

“Yeah,” Ashlyn nodded, finishing her lunch as she listened to her, and opening one of the many packs of Cornish biscuits that Ali had gifted her the week before for her birthday, one of which she had brought to lunch. “Get a biscuit, they're good.”

“I'm supposed to be on a diet...” Ali commented, but took one. “For the wedding.”

Ashlyn looked up at her and couldn't hide her expression of 'what the fuck are you talking about?' fast enough, so Ali saw.

“You are perfectly fine already,” Ashlyn said, then they both blushed. “I mean... you're not fat even next to my ex, generally defined as a Greek beauty by her surroundings, so... if she never needed a diet, I don't see why you would.”

A small smile appeared in Ali's face as she gulped down the biscuit.

“Thanks. Anyway, copy-catting the last scene of the book could have seemed like a good way of concealing a different motive, couldn't it?”

It required a conscious effort for Ali to not think about the photographs of Quine's guts, because otherwise she wouldn't grab a bite. Ashlyn seemed to see right through her eyes and straight into her soul.

“It's all wright to admit wha' happen'd t' him,” Ashlyn gulped down two biscuits that she was munching at once, “makes you want to puke.” She finished, her eyes glassy from gulping too hard.

“How can you be eating like that with this topic on the table?” Ali asked with a hint of amusement.

“I need food to think properly,” Ashlyn shrugged. “Gonna get some bacon rolls... want anything else?” Ali hadn't finished her salad yet. “Proper food, maybe?” Ali rolled eyes but side-smiled, and Ashlyn chuckled. “I'll get you a bacon roll.”

If Ashlyn was still in the SIB, she and her colleagues would have been making jokes about it by then. Pitch-black humour had been the only way to get through certain investigations, and it had been very common for them. Ali, however, was not yet ready for those things, and Ashlyn didn't want to rush her into such things. She knew that by the time she was a licensed detective, Ali would be cracking dark jokes as if they were her second language.

“Motive's a bitch, Ali,” said Ashlyn when she returned with the food. “Nine times out of ten you only find out why when you've found out who. It's means and opportunity we want. Personally,” she gulped her beer. “I think we might be looking for someone with medical knowledge.”

“Why's that?”

“The incisions were very confident, clean. Like when I dissected toads for science class, I was freakin' good.”

“So good you almost became a Navy doctor,” Ali pointed out. “Okay, but, think this. The killer must have felt that to murder Quine just like the book was worth it for some reason that outweighed all the obvious disadvantages—,”

“Such as?” asked Ashlyn, her lips shining with bacon grass, just like her fingers, looking at her with big, attentive eyes. Ali remembered to eat too.

“Logistical difficulties of making it such an elaborate, difficult killing, and dragging suspicion automatically to those who've read the book or head about it in detail. Besides, think about it. The manuscript's only been out for a week and a half or so, and the manuscript was revealed at about the exact same time Quine went missing, so about two weeks ago. Which means the killer has to have killed him shortly after he left his house, so the killer was between the first to have read the book, because otherwise they wouldn't have had the time to buy everything that was needed—,”

“Lure him, unless they knew he was going to Talgarth Road, or unless they tracked him down, and kill him. A lot of things to do in a very short span of time, you're right there,” Ashlyn said, and Ali couldn't help feeling proud, even more when Ashlyn didn't seem surprised at her intelligence. “So we can agree the killer has to have read the book no later than three days after Quine went missing. But that only makes Leonora look worse and worse. Quine could've told her about the book ending months ago, it's what police will think.”

Ali didn't taste her salad as she ate it, and not even the bacon roll. She refilled their glasses without asking, and it made Ashlyn feel particularly fond of her. As she sat back down, she was pale.

“Leonora is a danger to herself, if police intimidate her, she'll make herself look guilty,” Ali said, as if she had read Ashlyn's mind.

“Another possibility is that, since he threatened with publishing online in a packed restaurant, someone who didn't want his stuff in such a wide audience killed him before he could do that.”

“Makes sense. Y'know what I can't answer, though? Why kill Quine? Most people with motive could've refused to publish him, could've sued him and won, like Chard wanted to do... instead the kill him and make it all more public, because this was the best publicity.”

“Agreed. Assuming the killer is thinking rationally, that is.”

“This wasn't a crime of passion, they planned it, they really thought it through to make it scarier...”

Ali looked up and saw Ashlyn was smirking as she munched, her eyes fixed on Ali. Right then she understood Ashlyn already knew all of that, but was testing her and, judging by her expression, being impressed.

“Sorry,” Ashlyn knew when she was caught, “I just love to see how sharp-minded you are. Less than two months ago you were a little embryo... now you're speaking as if you've been in the business for long. Makes me proud.”

This time there was no way Ali could hide her blush.

“I had a good teacher,” Ali mumbled.

  
  


  
  



	27. Where did you go

**Chapter 27: Where did you go.**

They started discussing the meanings behind the actions in the books, everything that the characters did in reference to real life, and then Ashlyn realized that Pippa2011, the person who had been commenting in Kathryn Kent's blog, had said Owen read bits of the book to her before Quine even disappeared, which made her a good suspect, or at least so thought Ali.

“Good thing Abby will tell me when there's a time of death,” Ashlyn said. “The sooner it is, the smaller the number of suspects will be. Unfortunately, it'll include Leonora, but also this Pippa, Fisher—,”

“Why Fisher?”

“Means and opportunity, Ali. He had early access. But also Liz Tassel and assistant, Waldegrave and Chard, Fancourt and even Kent, maybe,” Ashlyn's phone rung and she saw it was Nina Lascelles. After a moment of hesitation, Ashlyn took the call. “Hi.”

“Hi, Famous Person,” she said. Ashlyn heard an edge inexpertly covered by breathy high spirits. “I've been too scared to call you in case you're being inundated with press calls and groupies.”

“How are things at Roper Chard?” Ashlyn asked, grabbing another biscuit while Ali finished her lunch.

“Insane. Was it really murder?”

“Looks like.”

“It was 'cause of the book, right?”

“I can't say.”

“And Chard broke his leg.”

“What?” Ashlyn asked, caught off-guard.

“One of the many odd things happening. Daniel has a house in Devon and he rang from there just now and Jerry was over the place, they were yelling and all, because Jerry's going to have to work without Daniel, who can't come with a broken leg. Daniel is furious now because police got a full copy of the manuscript, as well. Anyway, I wanted to say congrats. Call me when you're not so busy.”

She rang off before Ashlyn could say or do anything else.

“Nina Lascelles,” she breathed out, “the girl—,”

“Who got you the manuscript and you slept with,” Ali said with an amused smirk.

“Your memory would be wasted anywhere else. Anyway, she says—,”

But Ali's phone rang then and the brunette gave her an apologetic smile.

“Seems like we can't be left alone, uh?” Ali commented while searching for her phone. “It's Eric, just a moment... Hi sweetie, how are you?”

“Not great,” Eric answered on the phone. Somewhere in the background, someone turned up the music ' _first day that I saw you, thought you were beautiful..._ ' “Where are you?” he added sharply.

“Oh... in a pub,” Ali admitted. Suddenly the air seemed full of pub noises. “Ashlyn works better out of the office, we were just catching up on what's been happening while I was out. Since our client's husband got murdered, it's quite a mess...” she felt she needed to explain, and could even smell Eric's fury coming from Masham, where he still was.

“Nice,” he said, sounding furious. “Talk to you later.”

“Wait, no, Eric,” Ashlyn watched as Ali moved away to the bar, trying to redial Eric, and she knew that the accountant was unhappy his fiancée was out for lunch, instead of sitting shiva for his mother.

After a couple attempts, Ali got through and Ashlyn went to the bathroom, irritated by Eric interrupting a perfectly nice lunch with her friend and co-worker, and by the way Ali's face filled with tension and stress the moment she spoke with the love of her life, when she had looked so relaxed and pleased with Ashlyn, laughing around.

The detective was back in her seat and had finished her third pint by the time Ali came back.

“I'm sorry, Eric's a little too sensitive these days,” Ali explained, now feeling she needed to justify herself to her boss.

“It's normal,” Ashlyn shrugged, pushing Ali's still half-full beer towards the assistant so she'd gave a sip.

“I'll follow the Brocklehurst girl for you.”

“Make it quick and help me with some last invoices, please?”

“Sure,” Ali smiled warmly at her.

“I'm very glad you came back early. The office sinks without you,” Ashlyn commented stuffing another biscuit in her mouth. Ali snorted a laugh and reached a hand on instinct to brush some crumbles off Ashlyn's lips. They eyes connected as she touched the soft, thin lips, and Ali blushed, retreating her hand.

“Sorry.”

“It's okay.”

“Where do you put all you eat, though?”

“Oh, believe me it shows. But what can I say, I love food.”

Back in the office, Abby called and informed that Quine was killed by a blow to the head so hard that the back of his skull had been shoved in. The forensics couldn't be sure he was dead when he was carved open, but he was almost for sure unconscious, as death could've taken minutes to come. A path of skin under the ropes of one of his wrists was bruised, which could indicate he was tied up before being killed, but with all the acid many marks on the floor had been taken out, so they couldn't know if there was struggle, there wasn't evidence of the body being dragged.

What they knew for sure was that he was killed in that room and that the acid used was Hydrochloric, used to galvanize steel, among other things.

“It's as caustic a substance as you can legally buy and it's used n a load of industrial processes,” Abby explained through the phone. “Heavy-duty cleaning agent as well. It occurs naturally in our gastric acid, actually. There were empty gallon containers on the kitchen floor, and dusty containers alike in a cupboard under the stairs, full of the stuff and unopened. They came of a company in Birmingham.”

The blunt object that had bashed Owen's head in seemed to be an old-fashioned doorstop in the studio that was in the Talgarth Road house. It was solid iron and shaped like one, with a handle.

“What about time of death?” Ashlyn asked.

The forensics wouldn't commit themselves. All they could say was that Quine had been dead for at least ten days, although one of the best forensics, friend of Abby, said it was two weeks. But the acid, the heating, and the fact that the killer took stomach and intestines away with them, made it very hard to actually for sure set a time of death.

And Kathryn Kent had spoken to the police to tell them Quine liked to be tied-up during sex, so if the encounter had begun as sex, it could have something to do with it.

“We found a taxi driver who picked Quine up at nine o'clock on the day he left, a couple streets away from his house, and dropped him near the girlfriend's house,” Abby said. “But Kent was with her dying sister at the hospice.”

“Her character ties up and assaults the hero in the book,” Ashlyn says. “Maybe she told you so much about his likes to be tied-up for sex to leave it on record that she does it for sex, not torture or murder. What about all the notes and old typewriter ribbons Leonora said Quine took with him? Found them?”

“No,” Abby replied. “But I think Quine was living in Talgarth Road. There was a bit of food and drink in the kitchen, and a camping mattress and sleeping bag in one of the bedrooms, with acid all over all of it. But the acid took away fingerprints and all... our people have to wear masks just so the fumes don't rip their throats out. A neighbour swears she saw Quine leave Talgarth Road at one point, in the middle of the night, when she came from a party. So she only could see a silhouette of a tall figure in a cloak carrying a holdall. And an old library guy says he can remember what Quine bought on another day, and he described him accurately. Someone else claimed to see Fancourt walking part the house, also during the night. Fancourt's in Germany now, coming back soon to collaborate with us. So all the sightings are while he was missing. A different neighbour even says to have seen a fat woman with a burqa enter the house for an hour with her own key.”

“Bloody hell. And you think he died the night he left and that all the sightings are...”

“I mean the sightings aren't so trustworthy, right? And it'll be in accordance to being dead for two weeks.”

“Who do we know had keys of the place?” Ashlyn asked. “Aside from Leonora.”

“Quine himself, Fancourt has two, Tassel was lent one by the Quines when she was organizing some repairs there for them. Tassel said she gave it back. And a next-door neighbour. But this neighbour has been in New Zealand for two months, hasn't been in the house since May, when he took delivery of some packages while some workmen were in and put them in the hall. And the Quines' neighbours swear Leonora ran after Quine the night he left, screaming, yelling 'I know where you're off to'.”

“Yes,” Ashlyn said. “Because it's what she thought. She was sure Owen was at a writer's retreat Fisher told him about, Bigley Hall. She told me all about it, she's not keeping secrets, and she couldn't overpower Quine.”

“Yeah, but she has to know he liked being tied up... I don't know, it doesn't look great for her, Ash. She had motive, means...”

“I'm sure she didn't do it.”

“Ashlyn,” Abby said. “She worked in her uncle's butcher's shop years ago.”

On Friday, Ashlyn and Ali went to the addresses of Christian Fisher, Elizabeth Tassel, Daniel Chard, Jerry Waldegrave and Michael Fancourt, because Ashlyn wanted to know exactly where they lived and where they were when Quine disappeared, and then they also went to all the places where apparently Quine had been seen while he had disappeared, to check how accurate they might have been. The old man at the library wasn't back until Monday, Fisher and his girlfriend lived in Camden, which wasn't close enough to the crime scene, so they forgot about it. Jerry and his wife Fenella lived in Kensington, with their daughter in the basement, and Chard lived in Pimlico with a couple of servants, although they knew due to his leg he was in his property in Devon, Tithebarn House. Ashlyn also wanted to go back to Kent's house.

The burqa thing could be Islamophobia. Working for Ashlyn had opened Ali's eyes to the array and intensity of phobias and grudges she had never realized burned in the public’s breast. The tide of publicity surrounding the solving of the Landry case had washed onto Ali's desk a number of letters that had alternately disturbed and amused her. There had been the man who had begged Ashlyn to turn her clearly considerable talents to an investigation of the stranglehold of ‘international Jewry’ on the world banking system, a service for which he regretted he would not be able to pay but for which he did not doubt that she would receive worldwide acclaim. A young woman had written a twelve-page letter from a secure psychiatric unit, begging Ashlyn to help her prove that everybody in her family had been spirited away and replaced with identical impostors. An anonymous writer of unknown gender had demanded that the detective help them expose a national campaign of satanic abuse which they knew to be operating through the offices of the Citizens Advice Bureau.

“They could be loons,” Ashlyn agreed as they rushed towards the first of the houses they were going to visit that day. “Nutters love murder. It does something to them. People have to listen to them, for a start,” A young woman wearing a hijab was watching them talk from an opposite seat in the Tube She had large, sweet, liquid-brown eyes. “Assuming somebody really did enter the house with a hijab, I’ve got to say a burqa’s a bloody good way of getting in and out without being recognized. Can you think of another way of totally concealing your face and body that wouldn’t make people challenge you?”

“And they were carrying a halal takeaway?”

“Allegedly. Was his last meal halal? Is that why the killer removed the guts?”

“And this person left, so they weren't lying in wait for Quine?”

“No, but they could have been laying in plates,” said Ashlyn, making Ali wince.

They determined first that the burqa sighting was perfectly plausible, after hanging around the house for a few minutes. Then, as they were on the way to Tassel's house, Ashlyn was supporting more and more on the crutch. She was walking a lot, partially because their finances weren't to be spending much on transport, and her knee was starting to hurt, until at last, she realized she couldn't go ahead with the plan.

“I can't,” Ashlyn mumbled, supporting her full weight on the crutch and her healthy leg.

“What's wrong?” Ali frowned, putting a hand on her shoulder and looking worried.

“I'm crossing the line with the leg. I'm sorry Ali, we'll need to divide. I can't go everywhere. I'll do Tassel and Waldegrave, you check Kent and Lillie Road, where the taxi driver says he dropped Quine off, and the rest. And I need painkillers.”

“I'll get you a taxi,” Ali said, putting an arm around her for extra support.

“No, the money... we just had lunch yesterday out...”

“I'll pay for it.”

“I can't ask you to do that.”

“You're not.”

By the time they were both back at the office, Daniel Chard called there to say he wanted to meet Ashlyn in Devon, on Saturday. While Ali tried to find her an automatic to hire for her to drive to Devon, since a normal car would be too much on her leg, Ashlyn got a call from Mrs Quine. Things were looking worse for Leonora, who said that police was asking to look over the house and garden, and asked Ashlyn whether she should let them. Ashlyn told her to let them do whatever they wanted, to be helpful, and to call Whitney Ellacott immediately. Her lawyer friend would handle this.

Ashlyn thought the person with the burqa and the holdall was actually the killer with a burqa to hide herself, and the holdall was the guts of Quine. Ali had found a medical centre, in one of the addresses she had visited that day, where human waste could be disposed easily, so that became their theory. Then, Ashlyn phoned Jerry to see if they could meet on Monday, which he agreed to, and then Tassel agreed on meeting later for dinner.

“I went straight home after Owen stormed out on me, got up at six next morning, took a taxi to Paddington and went to stay with Dorcus.” Elizabeth Tassel explained that evening during their meeting.

“One of your writers, I think you said?”

“Yes, Dorcus Pengelly, she—“

Elizabeth noticed Ashlyn’s small grin and, for the first time in their acquaintance, her face relaxed into a fleeting smile.

“It’s her real name, if you can believe it, not a pseudonym. She writes pornography dressed up as historical romance. Owen was very sniffy about her books, but he’d have killed for her sales. They go,” said Elizabeth, “like hot cakes.”

“When did you get back from Dorcus’s?”

“Late Monday afternoon. It was supposed to be a nice long weekend... I live alone,’ she continued. ‘I can’t prove I went home, that I didn’t murder Owen as soon as I got back to London. I certainly felt like doing it…” She drank more water and continued: “The police were mostly interested in the book. They seem to think it’s given a lot of people a motive. Owen shared Michael’s prejudice about women in literature. Neither of them minded women praising their work, of c-course—,” She coughed into her napkin and emerged red-faced and angry. “Owen was a bigger glutton for praise than any author I’ve ever met, and they are most of them insatiable.”

“Why did you choose Quine? When there came a point between choosing between them both, you told me?”

“I felt he was more sinned against than sinning.”

“Do you think Owen wrote the parody Mrs Fancourt killed herself over?”

“I know he did. He showed it to me before sending it to the magazine. It made me laugh, but no one expected Elspeth to kill herself over it. What business do you have in writing if you can't accept a critic? But Owen refused authorship once she committed suicide, like a coward, even when he liked to make everyone think he was fearless. Michael wanted me to drop Owen as a client then, I refused, and that was the last Michael spoke to me. But even though Owen didn't give me that much money as Michael, I had to stick with him. I believe in freedom of speech. Anyway, days after the suicide, Leonora birthed premature twins. Something went wrong, the boy died and Orlando suffered brain damage. So I felt Owen needed me.” She broke into heavy coughing then, and sipped her water.

They were having dinner together, and Ashlyn contemplated her across the table.

“So how did you meet Michael?”

“We studied Jacobean revenge tragedies together. He adores their sadism and lust for vengeance, rape and cannibalism... we became very close friends, until I chose Owen. But you know? Owen hadn't done anything writing that parody that Michael hadn't done millions of times to other writers. Owen didn't mean for Elspeth to kill herself, and Michael is no better than him.”

“Can I ask... what did Owen have to make him a friend to you? No one likes him.”

“He wasn't always so bad. He was obsessed with virility, he was a creative genius... and he loved Orlando, and she loved him. He wasn't father of the year, but still...” Ashlyn nodded slowly. At least Owen hadn't been violent to his wife and daughter, which gained points to her eyes. “When Orlando was born, Owen had managed to get through all the money he'd ever made and Leonora was in intensive care for two weeks, while Fancourt couldn't stop screaming Owen murdered his wife. Owen was a pariah and he and Leonora had no more family. So I lent him money, as a friend, for the baby. Then I advanced him more for a mortgage on a bigger house, for specialists to look at Orlando, therapists to help her... every now and then, Owen would make a big fuss about repaying me, and give some thousands back. But he was irresponsible, impulsive, egotistical... and also fun, enthusiastic and engaging. Made us all feel protective of him, me, Jerry, his wife... and Orlando is so very sweet and innocent.”

“Yeah. She told me you went into Quine's study the other day,” Ashlyn commented raising an eyebrow.

“I wanted to find _Bombyx Mori_ , but the place was a mess, and I didn't want my fingerprints there, so I just left as fast as I went in.”

With that, Tassel seemed to have said everything she meant to say. Ashlyn's phone buzzed and she checked quickly. Ali texted she hadn't been able to find an automatic car, that the only company she had found required a booking of three days in advance, and the others already had their vehicles booked for the weekend, but Ali offered to drive her in a manual car she had found. Not seeing what else they could do, Ashlyn replied yes.

“Daniel Chard,” Ashlyn said then, looking up at Tassel, who was coughing again, “wants to see me. So I'll meet him tomorrow in Devon. Will you tell me why he's portrayed as a young blond man's murderer in the book?”

“No, I already made a mistake sending the book around...”

“I know Kent is Harpy in the book, I've met her. Why is the cave of her lair in the book full of rat skulls? Look, you can tell me or not, help me or not, I'll find out regardless because I always do, I just like to try the fastest routes first. I thought you wanted to find out who killed Quine.”

“Fine, I don't owe her anything... look, she works in an animal-testing facility, doing disgusting stuff to rats, dogs... that's the reference—,” she coughed hard once more. “She tried to impress me at a party, but her writing's terrible. And I'm a vet's daughter: I grew up with animals and I like them more than I like people. Found her a horrible person.”

“And who's her daughter in the book, Epicoene? Or the dwarf in the Cutter's bag?”

“I'm not explaining any more of that fucking book!”

Ashlyn nodded slowly. She sipped from her beer.

“All right... well, I'm curious about Joe North, since Quine ended in his house. Can you tell me about him?”

“He was from California, but came to find his English roots. He was gay, the youngest of us four, Owen, Michael and me, and he was writing a very honest novel about his Californian life. Michael introduced him to me thinking his stuff was good, and it was first class, it really was, but Joe partied so much and didn't look after himself with Aids, so he was a very slow writer. Joe fell apart physically... the only friends who stayed with him, who didn't run away when his thing with Aids became public, were Owen and Michael. They stayed with him until the end, although his novel was never finished. Owen was a pall bearer at his funeral, but Michael was ill. Joe left them that rather lovely house in gratitude, where they had once partied and sat discussing books. Sometimes, I was there too. Happy times.”

“How much did they use the house after North died?”

“I doubt Michael has been there since his fight with Owen, which was not long after Joe’s funeral,” said Elizabeth with a shrug. “Owen never went there because he was terrified of running into Michael. The terms of Joe’s will were peculiar: I think they call it a restrictive covenant. Joe stipulated that the house was to be preserved as an artists’ refuge. That’s how Michael’s managed to block the sale all these years; the Quines have never managed to find another artist, or artists, to sell to. Of course, Michael’s always been as picky as possible about tenants to stop Owen benefiting financially, and he can afford lawyers to enforce his whims.”

“And what about Joe's book? Did anyone finish it?”

“Michael did, yes. It’s called Towards the Mark and Harold Weaver published it: it’s a cult classic, never been out of print.”

“One last think, Mrs Tassel. I know you were at Talgarth Road supervising some works for Owen. Have you got any idea if there was hydrochloric acid there for the renovation?”

“Police asked me, why?”

“Can't say, sorry.”

“Well...” Tassel shrugged. “It was probably left there by Todd Harkness, that's what I told the police. An sculptor who rented the house once. But he worked mainly in rusted metal and used very corrosive chemicals, so he did a lot of damage to the studio, and was asked to leave. Fancourt hired people to fix it and sent us the bill.”

  
  



	28. Cornish magic

**Chapter 28: Cornish magic.**

At four o'clock on the last Saturday morning of October, and in the middle of a truly heavy rainfall, Ali made it into the Toyota Land Cruiser she had booked and picked up the evening before, after throwing her suitcases in the back. At eleven that night she had to be in King's Cross to get the train back to Masham to make it to Mrs Cunleaf's funeral.

Ali felt mixed feelings about the long drive to Devon, easily a four hour drive with this weather. On one side, she was deeply excited and overjoyed about going with Ashlyn. She couldn't wait to see what Ashlyn unmasked. Even though they hadn't known each other for that long, she trusted the detective's hunches and skills, and knew she'd figure out big things. But on the other side, she was tired of lying to Eric in order to do her job. She had said that she couldn't get the day free at work because, even though Ashlyn had offered, it was just too complicated with work, and besides, there weren't any trains available, which was a lie. She said they were full, and they weren't. And now, Eric could never know about the trip to Devon. Ali, who had never lied to him, had to keep that one lie.

There had been an offer of a better job. After the Landry case, Ali had nailed a job interview for Human Resources, at nearly twice the salary, but Ashlyn had just had surgery, she needed Ali, and Ali wanted to stay with the detective, so she never even told her about the interview. It happened while Ashlyn slept in her hospital bed, leg propelled up on pillows, and by the time Ashlyn woke-up, Ali was back with biscuits and the newspaper's crossword for her. Eric had never forgiven her for not taking that job.

“Good morning,” she smiled at Ashlyn as the detective walked out of the Ellacotts' house under her umbrella, with a face of complete exhaustion, and rushed into the car.

“Mm...” Ashlyn murmured, her eyes barely open, throwing her backpack and umbrella into the back. Ali sniggered and started to drive away. She was a morning person, while Ashlyn wasn't, and she always found that enjoyable. At the first red light, Ali retrieved her own backpack from the back-seat and pulled a thermos of coffee, that she handed Ashlyn.

“Have you had any breakfast?”

Ashlyn looked slowly down to the thermos, grabbing it, and then her tired eyes looked up at Ali. There was a mark of a sheet wrinkle on her cheek, her lips looked soft with sleep, her hair was a little messy and she looked adorable.

“I love you Ali,” Ashlyn mumbled sleepy. Ali blushed and smiled.

“Have some coffee, I need you awake before the GPS gets me into all the wrong routes to Cornwall.”

“'Re we goin' t' the beach?” Ashlyn asked half asleep, struggling to open the thermos with sleepy hands, and sounding a little childish.

“I wish,” Ali said, driving through the rain. The next time she looked at Ashlyn, the detective had fallen asleep hugging the closed thermos close, warm as it was, in the cold day. Stopping at another red light, Ali contemplated her. It was incredible how relaxed and at peace she looked, even though she was in a car, which always made her tense and nervous. Now, however, she slept like a little child, one that hadn't known all the tragedy she had.

They had spoken on the phone that night, taking advantage of Eric's absence, as Ali had invited Ashlyn to come to her place in Ealing after meeting with Tassel, if she felt with the energy and her leg didn't bug her. There, over wine and beer, the two had sat on Ali's sofa and discussed the case in depth while having some light dinner, as Ashlyn hadn't eaten much with Tassel, not wanting to spend money on more restaurants, until it was late and Ali had driven Ashlyn back to Whitney and Nick's house. Whitney was already busy taking care of defending Mrs Quine.

It had been a nice night, much nicer than the ones Ali normally had, and she made a mental note of having Ashlyn around more often, when Eric wasn't around, so he wouldn't be pissed off. She dreamed there would come a day in which Ali would introduce the two and they'd become super nice friends, because why wouldn't they? Ali loved Eric with all her heart, and if he loved her, he should at least like Ashlyn, who was all sorts of a wonderful person. Once the two parts of her life met in total harmony, Ali would be happy.

However, Ali loved Eric, the axis of her life, the fixed centre, her rock. She had always loved him, since their teens. He had stuck with her through the worst times in her life, when most young men like him would have left. And she wanted nothing more than to marry him. But they had never had such fundamental disagreements before.

Ashlyn finally awoke about a couple hours later, calmly, instead of with the usual jump, and stretched her neck while looking around and seeing they were well out of London. Then she noticed the warm bottle between her arms.

“Why am I holding a thermos?” Ashlyn asked, looking confused. Ali side smiled.

“It's coffee. You fell asleep trying to open it.”

“Oh... you brought this?” she asked with childish excitement.

“Yeah.”

“Thank you,” Ashlyn smiled and in one swift motion, opened the bottle and took a large sip. “Uhm, black, strong and perfect.”

“By the way, what about your Saturday therapy?”

“I cancelled it, I'll be okay without it for one week... this was too important.”

“You do look very comfortable despite this being a car, and you not being the driver,” Ali commented as their landscape turned green and more green. She had never gone to the South-West before, which added excitement to the trip.

“Thanks, I've been working on it,” Ashlyn took another sip of her coffee. “It also helps that you're the driver. If I have to be driven by anyone, I'd pick you a hundred times. Still haven't forgotten that magic you did saving our lives, bloody incredible...”

Ali tried not to be too smug about it, but she was so unused to the admiration that Ashlyn had in her voice that she couldn't help it.

“I'm so glad. Hey, do you think the interview will be long? I do need to catch a train in King's Cross, leaves at eleven tonight. Otherwise I won't make it to Eric's Mum's funeral, and he may kill me for that.” She said with a joking tone.

“Joking about death already, Krieger?” Ashlyn chuckled. “No worries, I'll make sure you get in that train on time. How are your brother's attempts to move to London going?”

“Well, for now he's living with Christen in Earl's Court. She's gay, like him, so they're both pretty comfortable and they were already close through me. Christen always calls him the brother she never had and is more than happy to have him. He's already in Masham though, my family's quite close to Eric's, so they're all coming to the funeral. And he got a call from the Larry King salon.”

“What? But that one's huge! Like, Beckham goes to it!”

“Yeah!” Ali grinned. “I'm so proud of him Ash, like, you wouldn't believe...” Ashlyn watched with a big smile as the brunette smiled driving. “I mean, I don't know if London's his place, if he'll stay here... he's always gone around. He's lived in Scotland, Wales, York, Brighton, Portsmouth... but he really likes it here.”

“So let's cross fingers then,” Ashlyn smiled.

“Have you found a flat, by the way?”

Ashlyn had been searching for a flat for the past few weeks. She had actually been trying to rent the attic above the office, that had just been vacated. It was a carton box, pretty much, but it was also an expensive carton box, and she hadn't managed to get the tenant to lower the price, but she was still trying.

“The attic above the office. Tenant's willing to wait for me to afford it, we might sign in November. He'd rather I have it, since my office is below and I'm getting famous, than some untrustworthy dickhead that causes damage in it, as he claims that has happened in the past.”

“We'll cross fingers for that too.”

As they went back to discussing _Bombyx Mori_ , they had fun laughing at its absurdities and Ali, who had successfully finished all of Quine's books, pointed out how many things Quine had copied into the book from other works of his. Near Swindon, Whitney phoned Ashlyn and let her know that police had taken Leonora in for questioning after finding photographs in her and Quine's bedroom. Quine liked to be photographed once restrained, it seemed. Ashlyn had cursed under her breath, and then Whitney had gone on to inform her the Quines had a lock-up, but she didn't know what had been found there yet. Whitney expected her client to be arrested soon, and she'd call later.

The two stopped for lunch near their final destination of Tiverton, in Devon. As the two sat in a park to eat some sandwiches, Ashlyn admitted she hadn't had the energy for breakfast, and Ali handed her a pack of biscuits she had grabbed from the office, of the ones she had brought Ashlyn. This one was between the last ones left.

“You're such a thoughtful person,” Ashlyn complimented. The day had gotten sunnier, and where they sat, the bench was dry because of some huge trees that had sheltered it.

Too warm, Ashlyn pulled up her sleeves, exposing her fully tattooed left arm and her partially tattooed right arm. Ali could see a giant owl in it.

“Cool owl,” Ali pointed out.

“Thanks,” Ashlyn smiled. “I drew it myself. I drew them all myself, actually.” Ashlyn added. “With very few exceptions.”

“That _is_ freaking talent,” Ali commented, impressed. “How many tattoos do you have?”

“Uhm...” Ashlyn shrugged. “No idea, to be honest, because very often I get very tiny ones that end up becoming huge things when they come together. Like, my arm sleeve is not one tattoo, is like a hundred of them. Then I got my shoulders tattooed, I'm working on another arm sleeve, I've got some tattoos on my legs... my brother's name over my heart, and my left side of the torso. To me, my body is my canvas, where to paint my life, my lessons, my adventures, all that's truly special to me... so I can always carry it with me, and so they're a statement and reminder of the mountains I've climbed and the strength I've gained. They do lift me up in the bad days, and they're all special, all meaningful. I never get anything silly.”

“Woah... well, for what I see, they are really cool. Although... how do you afford them? I thought you were poor when younger, and now you're struggling.”

“I never got tattoos when money was short,” Ashlyn explained. “Most of them I got them in the Navy, where I was very well paid. Another bit were gifts. My family and friends knew sometimes I'd be happier about getting fifty pounds for a tattoo than a new book or a jumper. Designing them myself saved money, and the fact that some of my closest friends are tattoo artists also helps. I saw you got a tattoo too, didn't you? I thought I glimpsed something on your arm once.”

Ali smiled and nodded, pulling her left sleeve up to show her the word 'Liebe' big on her forearm.

“Love,” Ali translated, brushing it with her finger.

“Because of Eric?”

“No, actually,” Ali replied, biting from her sandwich. “After I left Uni, I was home for a long time. When I finally decided to go out, Eric was having some success in life with his studies and all, and I decided I needed a change. I saw this program in Frankfurt, a mental health course kind of thing, very innovative and in Frankfurt. It was very expensive because it was a whole year, although you could take holidays whenever you wanted, and they hosted you in this wonderful big house, one for women, one for men, with private security and all, and language aids. Every morning we had meditation, Yoga, self-defence classes with former soldiers, driving lessons, horse riding... all sorts of activities, and they varied with time. We would even go on trips, and each of us had their own bedroom, so we had our own space. I made quite the friends there. And we also had German classes, of course, and do a lot of sports. Football, but also basketball, volley, racing, climbing, hiking, biking... and it wasn't like prison. You were free to move around, they gave you cars and all.”

“It sounds surreal, incredibly cool, super expensive, and like nothing I've ever heard of.” Ashlyn admitted with a small frown, wondering what where those things for. “Is that like a retreat?”

“Year long retreat for trauma survivors,” Ali nodded. Ashlyn didn't press as to what had gotten her in that situation. “Because I was agoraphobic a whole year, home. My family paid for it, and in Germany I learned to speak fluent German and I got a job there, through the retreat program. It was one of the happiest, if not the happiest year of my life. Eric could come any time as well, and it was just... incredible experience. We had a lot of water activities too, and trips through all of Germany... I really did cry when I left, but I left when I knew I was ready to come back. Before I left though, I got this tattoo, to remind me of all the love I experienced there from complete strangers, the friendships made, the second, German family there. It was a beautiful experience.”

Ashlyn nodded slowly. Ali looked at her tattoo for a long moment, and then pulled the sleeve back down.

“I'm glad you had something like that to help,” Ashlyn said softly. “Maybe I should've done that instead of the Navy,” she added jokingly, but Ali grinned at her.

“You could come with me next summer. They do these things every year, people stay for as long as they want. I stayed a year, but I was thinking of going for a couple weeks next summer. It's much cheaper when it's just two weeks like, cheaper than any holiday you may get.”

“You wouldn't mind me coming with you, invading your happy place?” Ali snorted.

“You're part of my happy place, don't be ridiculous.”

“And... don't you miss Eric there?”

“Of course, but when I did it, he knew I needed it, and he was thrilled I was ready to leave my house for once. For these couple weeks, he'll be in San Francisco for an accountants congress, so...” Ali shrugged.

“And is that the only tattoo you've got?”

“No,” Ali lifted her t-shirt a little, and Ashlyn gulped as the skin was exposed, until she got a partial look of a large text in German on her left side. “It's German, from _The Little Prince_. Means _it is only with the heart that one can see rightly—,_ ”

“ _What is essential is invisible to the eye_ ,” Ashlyn finished. Ali looked surprised. “It's one of my favourite books. Beautiful quote.”

“Yeah. I loved that, how... well, how love is not about appearance, not true love at least. How the essential things are sometimes only seen with the heart, not with the eyes. Like... you can't trust your eyes always. Something you have to trust your feelings more, blindly, like hunches.”

Ashlyn stared at her, her sandwich and biscuits forgotten. Ali, right there, looking stunning with the sun on her face, was showing her just how deep of a person she was, and Ashlyn was both impressed and breathless. She could feel the way Ali made huge, accidental advances into her heart, and she was trying hard to stop her before she did something she would regret forever.

“Funny,” Ashlyn murmured, “that's what made me accept... liking girls. As you can imagine, Curtis didn't fancy a gay child, but I always found consolation in that quote, even if it wasn't intended like that.”

“Quotes are intended in whichever way they touch you,” Ali said matter-of-factly. “It's not a white or black meaning. It's whatever it makes you feel.” The detective half smiled.

“Well, for me... it made me feel special. That maybe there was something extra pure, extra good, in those people who could forget what the eye told them and just see people with the heart and fall in love... even if it meant falling for another woman. It made me think maybe I was special because I could be so loving, without restraints or rules, and that maybe it was a good thing, not something to feel ashamed of.” Ali grinned at her, finding that so sweet.

“Giving more love to the world should never be something to feel ashamed of.”

  
  



	29. Danulchar

**Chapter 29: Danulchar.**

Daniel Chard and his two Filipino servants lived in an enormous house that gave huge feelings of vertigo. No walls divided its vast interior, and the first floor was reached by a steel and glass spiral staircase, and was suspended on thick metal cables from the high ceiling. Ali felt sick right away, and Daniel wasn't a very welcoming host, even if he had been the one to insist for them to come. Most of the furniture was white or black leather, and then wood and metal, and very little furnishing in general. To make Ali feel sicker, there was a life-size white marble sculpture of an angel, perched on a rock and partially dissected to expose half of her skull, a portion of her guts and a slice of the bone in her leg. Her breast, Ali saw, was a mound of fat globules sitting on a circle of muscle that resembled the gills of a mushroom. It was very realistic.

She realized then that she had gone hours without a bit of water, and now it was getting hot and humid in Devon, when the rain had stopped falling, but she was wearing a wool jumper, because it had been cold before. Sweat broke in her forehead and she felt cold sweat in her hands, becoming dizzy from the house, the sculpture and dehydration.

“You all right, Alex?” Ashlyn asked, putting a hand on her shoulder and leaning to have a better look.

“Sorry,” Ali said, feeling numb, “long journey... could I have just a glass of water?”

“Nenita,” Chard called one of his Filipino servants, “the lady needs a glass of water.”

Ali had to follow Nenita away to the kitchen, and Ashlyn remained with Chard, feeling guilty. Daniel Chard had broken his leg, he explained upon questioning, falling down the spiral staircase. He spoke with Ashlyn over tea, and told her about his idea that Owen Quine worked with an accomplice, because he distinguished two different styles in _Bombyx Mori_. The predominant one was Owen's, but there was something else. Besides, according to Chard, there were things in the book that Quine could not have known, things that someone else had to tell him.

When Ali returned, more refreshed and looking healthy again, Chard asked her to return to the kitchen very rudely, saying the conversation was confidential. Ashlyn fists clenched, wanting to complain, and she saw Ali look at her expecting her to say something, but Ashlyn didn't, and Ali stormed off.

“If I told you who I suspect to have helped Owen, and asked you to bring me proof, would you feel obliged to pass that information to the police?” Daniel Chard asked later, never looking at Ashlyn in the eyes.

“It depends. If I uncovered an accomplice and it looked like they might have killed Quine or know who did it, I'd have to consider telling the police.”

The suspect for Chard had turned out to be Jerry Waldegrave. According to him, Jerry's behaviour has been strange for weeks, and aside from that, Jerry, according to Chard, resented him, but it was unjustified.

“Jerry dislikes Fancourt,” mumbled Chard, “because Fancourt flirted with Jerry's wife. But I told Michael off! Michael got offended and found another publisher. It's taken us twenty-odd years to lure him back. I believe Jerry took Owen into his confidence about Michael's deal, that we were trying to keep under wraps. Owen's been Fancourt's enemy for decades, so they decided to make this terrible book, calumniating Michael and I, in revenge. It makes sense, doesn't it? After all, even after I told Jerry to make sure the manuscript was safely locked, he let anyone read it, and then he resigns...”

“When did he resign?”

“The day before yesterday. And you see, Jerry, collaborating with Quine, wanted to hurt his wife. They're very unhappy, the Waldegraves, the Cutter is actually Jerry, but although it looks like Jerry harms himself, he harms his wife in that book. Owen couldn't write the Cutter, he barely knows Fenella, couldn't have known that old business. And also, I'm sure Jerry told Quine that we were going to drop him. Roper Chard had no legal obligation to publish _Bombyx Mori_ , just to take a first look, so we were going to drop him to get Michael, and I offended Quine the last I saw him.”

“When? When he visited with Orlando? Orlando told me,” Ashlyn added, seeing his surprise.

“Orlando grabbed at a mock-up cover. I seized her wrist to stop her ruining it, and she got very upset and made a scene, very embarrassing and uncomfortable. She was hysterical and Owen furious. Add getting Michael back, and you'll see Owen hated my guts.”

“What do you know of late Joe North?” Ashlyn asked as she drank her tea.

“I turned down Joe North’s novel,’ said Chard. His thin mouth was working. “That’s all I did. Half a dozen other publishers did the same. It was a mistake, commercially speaking. It had some success, posthumously. Of course,” he added dismissively, “I think Michael largely rewrote it. But Owen also resented me for it.”

Then Ashlyn did a clever manoeuvre of making Chard think police was checking his movements like one more suspect. Scared, Chard suddenly told her everything. When he found out about the book, then he headed to London, then when he met with his lawyers and spoke to Jerry, all.

When the visit ended, Ali moved directly into the car coldly without speaking to anyone. She didn't speak either as Ashlyn insisted they had a break at Sparkford, after Ali had been in silence for far too long, alleging she didn't want to tell her about the interview while she was driving so she was properly focused and so, if she got surprised or astonished by anything, she'd be able to express it properly. They sat in a Burger King and Ashlyn glanced at her stone-cold face.

“I know I should've said something when Daniel Chard undermined you like that. I'm very sorry I shut up,” Ashlyn said softly, “but I was getting good stuff out of him, stuff that can help us catch a murderer, Ali, and he's a very weird type as you've seen, someone hard to get anything from. I couldn't risk it, I thought you'd know.”

“Sorry for my amateurishness.”

“Oh, for fuck's sakes...”

“I thought we had a plan!” Ali snapped suddenly, glaring at her. “That we'd be equals one day! That I'd be more than just an assistant.”

“And you're here! You come with me as often as possible, I've done all I said I'd do! I've kept my word.”

“You were, but then you let someone brush me aside like that. I understand catching a murderer goes first, but I thought you'd tell him I was trustworthy, that we worked together, that you wouldn't catch Quine's killer without me, that you didn't catch Lula's killer without me...” her eyes got glassy and Ashlyn was astounded she would get emotional. “Maybe not all of that, okay! But bits! Make him see that you needed me to be there, that I didn't drive three hours and a half just to be your taxi, risking not being on time for a family funeral, that I wasn't just an assistant and it was important for you that I was there. And you looked at me in the eye and you shut up, relegating me to... to the kitchen,” Ali looked at her full of hurt, and Ashlyn sighed and looked away. “Keep that up, and I don't know what kind of training I'll get if every time you have to fight for me to actually be treated like more than an assistant, you shut up. And don't tell me catching a killer depended on Chard. You know as well as I do that he didn't insist for us to come here just to let you go if you refused to talk if I wasn't there. He would've given in. And if he didn't, we would still catch the killer. And you know what hurts more? That I thought as a fellow woman, you'd be a more fierce fighter so your female employees weren't spoken to by a man like that. I'd expect that perhaps, from a male boss, even if I would've been indignant too, but I didn't expect it from you.”

Ashlyn glared at her. She was about to be comprehensive, to apologize as many times as necessary, but being accused of lack of camaraderie towards a fellow woman, playing that card, as if she wasn't the fierce feminist she considered herself to be, stung too much.

“You don't get to complain of male treatment,” Ashlyn said harshly, taking her aback. “I've busted my ass off for almost a decade in men's world, working men's jobs. Do you think I had it easy in the Navy being a woman? That I wasn't repeatedly shoved down, underestimated, undermined? You don't know what professional sexism feels like, and believe me, I'd never let that happen to you on my face. It's part of why I was livid when you were slapped, and I went and shouted at that client until I literally lost my voice. So be careful with your words there because I've proven to you already how serious I am with that.”

The assistant bit her lip and shook her head.

“What I meant was precisely that since you knew what that was like, you wouldn't allow for Chard to talk to me like that and shove me away! That you'd do something!”

“Why didn't you?” Ali was taken by surprised, and blinked repeatedly.

“You're my boss. I'm not supposed to—,”

“You're twenty-five. You're not my kid to take care of, Ali, no more than I'd do as a friend. You could've stood up to him, but you didn't. You shut up, didn't you? You expect me to be the boss who stands up to whoever it takes for you, but you don't even stand up to your husband, am I wrong? You don't stand up to anyone except, perhaps, to me, because I'm a woman and that makes you feel like it's easier, because I'll be more understanding.”

“What the fuck are you—?”

“You said 'I always wanted to do something police related but no one ever believed',” Ashlyn said firmly. “You've never stood up to your very own family even, Ali, to do the fuck you wanted with your life. You let everyone drag you away from your dreams, into a psychology degree, and now you let your husband dictate your life. That's one of the reasons why you're an assistant, because you never busted your ass off for something more,” continued Ashlyn, relentless, despite the hurt that appeared more and more in Ali's eyes. “You want the truth? I'm willing to give it, even when it hurts. You have plenty of skills and talent, and had you gone to police school or something, fought your way in through men and unequal pay, you could be working with Abby, or sitting there with me interviewing Daniel, because you would've showed him your badge and he would've shut up. And one day, when you're an actual detective, I hope you're the woman who stands up for herself no matter what, and doesn't let anyone mistreat her unless it's absolutely necessary to catch a murderer, but right now I can't expect that from someone that has to lie to her own future husband just to be able to drive me to Devon,” she snorted at Ali's flash of surprise through her face. “Come on, as if you could possibly hide something from a detective. I know what you do. I know what he does. I know last week you said it was fixed, and I believe you sincerely thought so, but he still has control over you, he decides what you do or don't do, and you have to do small acts of standing up to yourself just to continue working for me, and then you have to lie to your fiancé, to the love of your life, repeatedly, because just telling him you were in a pub with me instead of crying for his mother was enough to make him furious. And you choose to marry _that_. None of that is my business Ali, and I won't meddle because I've meddled enough as it is. But I do beg you, before chastising me for something, think why you didn't do it yourself. You want to be treated like a policewoman and respected as such? Then bloody act like it. Not like a sixteen year old innocent intern I have to protect.”

Ali clenched her jaw and glared at her full of, and it surprised Ashlyn because it was a first, disdain.

“ _You_ are going to tell me how I should or not be with my fiancé? You couldn't even keep yours. She's marrying a Duke,” Ashlyn's eyes widened with the new information, and her stomach dropped, while Ali couldn't stop her poisonous tongue, feeling she urged to hurt her like she had hurt her, “it was in the cover of Tatler this morning, you know? And in the article, she humiliates you big time. Eleven years she talks about like a big, meaningless mistake, so now she could be engaged to the one she calls the love of her life, just weeks after your break-up. So I wouldn't say you're very indicated to give anyone romantic advise or even about standing up, didn't you just admit last week that the only reason you never cut your hair was because she didn't want you to? You go around like a sailor no one can give any bullshit to, a warrior... and the love of your life grabbed you by the ovaries and bossed you around.”

Ashlyn, who had closed her eyes, looked up at her in disbelief and hurt, and found the same in Ali's expression. They had done it, stabbed each other thoroughly, all because of some jerks of men around them. And what do you do when that happens with a friend? Or at work? When everything you had with someone breaks down in a minute?

Ashlyn excused herself to go to the bathroom, and googled in her phone her ex's name, needing to see if it was true. Everything Ali said was true. In the article, Ashlyn was nothing but 'some mistake' Lisbeth had done in her youth, 'sexual experimentation'. Sex. That was all. She'd be lying if she said she didn't cry, but she didn't cry out of sadness, mostly. Mostly it was anger, frustration, unfairness... and she cried for Lisbeth and for Ali, and because why in hell was she being punished like this. After solid five minutes in the bathroom, not one more, she cleaned her face, that had no make-up on, as she couldn't get to do it as early as she had woken-up, and she took several deep breaths to decide what she was going to do, as Ali's friend but also as her boss. She'd think of Beth later.

As a communications student, she had studied a little bit of psychology. She hadn't been in her degree for long, but she had studied things related to it her entire life, before and after Oxford, because she loved those things. She had read books and books on communication, interpersonal relationships, social psychology... as well as crime books, and things more related to her work. She had tried to apply everything of her passion about figuring out how interpersonal relationships worked and about people, into her job.

When the detective returned to Ali, after many deep breaths and visibly calm, Ali had her face in her hands. Hearing Ashlyn, she jumped in her seat and looked up at Ashlyn. Her eyes were full of tears, she rubbed her cheeks desperately turning around to try and hide them from Ashlyn, trying to rub tears away, and she looked at her full of insecurity and even with a hint of panic.

“I'm so sorry Ashlyn, I should've—,”

“If I wasn't me, you'd be fired, effect immediately,” Ashlyn said calmly. “I know I was hurtful, and I'm sorry, but I was just trying to be honest and force you to empower yourself, fight for yourself, I tried to help you be a better detective. You don't want my help nor my advice? Okay. I'll bite my tongue next time. It's just a bit hard to try and figure out how to be your boss and your friend, but I get it now. So... I think we've got a killer to catch and a mother to spare, and we shouldn't lose any more time. You need to catch a train. Would you be so kind to drive me back to London, please?” she asked without looking at her. Suddenly, she couldn't bear to look at her.

Terrified, Ali nodded.

“Y-Yes, sure...” she would've preferred Ashlyn shouted at her.

  
  



	30. Ice cold

**Chapter 30: Ice cold.**

It was the second consecutive weekend they had a big row. Ali drove against the clock, while Ashlyn, who had spent the first part of the trip silently staring at the window, closed her eyes in apparent sleep. Soft snores from her filled the car for a solid hour, and when she woke-up, she remained stoic in her place. She didn't touch any of Ali's things. Not her coffee, her thoughtful snacks... nothing. She marked a firm line between what was Ali's and what was hers. Whitney had also called, to inform Leonora hadn't been arrested but that police was sure it was her. The lock-up had contained a burned, bloodstained rag among a pile of junk. Whitney knew about the guts and all because apparently it had been on the news during lunchtime.

As they neared London, the rain appeared again in full blizzard. Speed was reduced by signs to sixty, and the wind against the car, fierce and unforgiving, united to the night and the intense rain, the fog dense and making visibility very difficult, made Ashlyn start to feel very uneasy and uncomfortable, and Ali panic thinking that she was not going to make it to the train in time. They had had one dinner sandwich each on the way, having lost too much time arguing, and now she would still be late. Traffic seemed to get only more and more dense until at one point, the car was barely advancing.

Ashlyn saw Ali look at her watch frequently. They had caught two car accidents, each of them taking them extra forty minutes to move from, and Ali didn't need to talk for Ashlyn to know what she was thinking. Ali's eyes were glassy and her face full of stress and tension. Eric was going to be furious. He'd never forgive her.

“Don't take that exit,” Ashlyn said at last.

“But I've got to drop you—,”

“Forget me. Next left—,”

“It's one way!”

“Left! D'you want to miss this bloody funeral? Put your foot down! First right!” Ashlyn indicated. The way they were driving and under this weather made Ashlyn's heart drum so fast she knew she'd end up having an anxiety attack, but she hoped she could delay it just enough.

“Where are we?”

“Straight on... Nick's Dad's a cabbie, he taught us to drive and some other stuff... right, ignore the _No Entry_ , no one's coming out there on a night like this. Straight on and left at the lights!”

“What are you going to do with the car? I can't just—,”

“I'll figure something out. Second right!”

At twenty to eleven, the towers of St Pancras appeared to Ali like heaven through the rain and the fog. Ali stopped the car on a double yellow line.

“Get out and run,” Ashlyn instructed. “Good luck tomorrow. I'll handle the car.” Ali looked at her with immense gratitude, but Ashlyn looked away, and she felt like crying.

“Thank you,” Ali said, “I'm very sorry, Ash.” She reached forward and gave her a peck on the lips, and then ran under the rain, took her suitcase, and rushed to the station. Ashlyn observed her go in, her backpack on one shoulder, her suitcase getting wet, and her umbrella fighting the wind.

A minute later, a full-blown panic attack hit Ashlyn like a truck. She didn't do cars much, but she certainly didn't do cars with the daringness they had driven to the station. She exited the car, getting soaked in seconds, and that helped her panic attack subside. Taking deep breaths, she looked at the station's outside clock, seeing it was already past eleven. Ali had made it inside.

With shaking hands and paler than she'd ever been, she browsed her phone to find out where she had to leave the car for the company it belonged to, and then she texted Nick to see whether anyone could pick her up there. Nick gave her a thumbs up, so she started the engine and, very slowly and taking many deep breaths and giving herself many pep talks, she made it.

**. . .**

On Sunday, Ashlyn woke up late. She had been in a very poor state when Nick had picked her up and, after a few too many drinks, she had told both he and Whitney had had happened with Ali. However, that hadn't been the worst part, emotionally, for her. That was a fight that hurt but could handle. Even discovering Beth's engagement was something she could handle. But guiding Ali to drive in forbidden directions, with that weather, at that speed, at night... it had really given her serious PTSD. So she slept like a baby, helped to sleep by Whitney, who slid into bed with her and wrapped her arms around her, comforting her until sleep took over, and then in the late morning she felt like a new person.

Then, she made a plan to catch Owen Quine's killer, a plan that could not fail. First, she phoned Nick's younger brother, who she knew for years now and was friends with, and second, after the guy hadn't picked up, Nina Lascelles. She was delighted. Of course Ashlyn could come over tonight. She'd cook. Then, she got ready for the day and went to the office, where she typed Daniel Chard's full statement of the day before, and sent it in an email to Ali, with no mention of anything outside the case. She focused on doing work for other clients, and when dinner time came, she bought a fine wine and, thanking London's changing weather for clearing out, grabbed a taxi to Nina's house. She would charge it into one of her rich clients.

“Hi,” Nina smiled when she arrived.

“Hi,” Ashlyn smiled, handing the wine, “I forgot your place was so nice.”

While they talked about paintings and decorations, they walked into the kitchen, and they shared a wine.

“It wasn't fun at work yesterday,” Nina said while they ate, after a few minutes of chatting about more meaningless things. “Not after we saw the news. Nobody's laughing about _Bombyx Mori_ any more. And Jerry's drinking again, a whole lot, he's not himself anymore, and now he's resigned.”

“So I heard. Was he close to Quine?”

“I think closer than he thought he was. Michael Fancourt is being interviewed on the telly this evening, if you want to watch.”

“Definitely,” then Ashlyn's phone rang, and she excused herself to take it. “I'm sorry,” she saw it was Nick's brother, “it's someone I've been trying to get a hold of, just two minutes.”

She went to the bathroom to speak.

“Hi Ash!” Marcus said cheerfully. “What's up?” Marcus Ellacott, a year younger than Nick and herself, was an IT, one of the good ones, who worked for important companies and even for the government at times. He had married into the high society, marrying the year before a famous music composer for films, but he kept himself humble, and the two lived in a lovely small house in the south of the city, and tried to keep themselves away from paparazzi, magazines, and cameras, just living a normal life. However, his father-in-law was a famous chef, so fame didn't quite elude them.

“Hi, how are you?”

“Great! You? How's that knee?”

“It's doing pretty well, fast recovery... listen, I need a favour.”

“Sure, anything you need. Is this to catch another killer?”

“Yeah,” Ashlyn replied. He whistled in excitement. “Can we have dinner on... Friday? At the River Café. Can you book it?”

“Sure, I'll text you the time. Looking forward to it! Everything else good?”

“Yes, thank you very much. How's Stella?”

“Wonderful, just working on some sheets right now... I'll let you go. See you soon!”

Twenty minutes later, Nina curled on Ashlyn's lap as they sat naked on the sofa, watching TV, listening to Fancourt's boring, ego-fuelled interview. Ashlyn had given Nina a quickie with promises of more later, because she didn't want to miss it, and now Nina traced her muscular, tattooed arms, that surrounded her, and kissed her cheek, jaw or neck softly every once in a while.

The interview was about Fancourt's new book, and in it he said such things that Ashlyn wondered why his wife stuck around. He was definitely full of shit.

“You’ve been criticized,” said the interviewer bravely, “for your depiction of women, most particularly—,”

“I can hear the critics’ cockroach-like scurrying for their pens as we speak,” said Fancourt, his lip curling in what passed for a smile. “I can think of little that interests me less than what critics say about me or my work.”

“Dickhead,” Nina murmured, and Ashlyn smiled broadly, nodding, and leaned to kiss her forehead. Sex tonight was purely about discharging, about forgetting her own problems and complications, about seeking much-needed release, but she still liked to treat her women sweetly and nicely. She thought women, even those you didn't mean anything serious with, ought to be treated with care and respect, and although she didn't always manage so much, she tried her best most of the time, or chastised herself otherwise.

At one point, the interviewer managed to make Fancourt lose his cool and temper, and very worked-up, he said:

“When Eff— Ellie died,” began Fancourt. “When she died...” his eyes got glassy, and he took a deep breath.

Ashlyn smirked.

“Fuck you,” she turned the TV off and then lifted Nina's face with her hand, to kiss her. “Maybe we should do something about that too, don't you think?”

When Ashlyn appeared at the office on Monday, she was feeling relaxed and cheerful, even though she had seen a dark hoodie following her once more, but she had closed the building door firmly after her and once in the office, locked the office door.

“Why are you locking it?”

Surprised, Ashlyn looked up to see Ali sitting at her desk. She looked tired, but she was already busy with work. She must keep the door locked when she's alone out of working hours, because it was how Ashlyn had found it.

“Uh... dark hoodie following me again,” Ashlyn said calmly. “Just making sure no one sneaks in without us knowing. Careful when you go out, though.”

“Oh,” Ali frowned. “Didn't see anyone coming here... good to know.”

“How long have you been here?”

“An hour or so. Did you see last night? Michael Fancourt. What a brat, right?”

“He was. Did you notice anything odd?”

“The crocodile tears were a bit too much. So, the doctor's surgery outside Kathryn Kent's flat has their medical waste handled by a specialist company that collects it every Tuesday. They didn't notice anything odd or unusual about the bags they collected the Tuesday after the murder. They told me it's usually just swabs and needles, sealed up in special bags. So I don't think our killer put there Quine's... body parts.”

“Good job,” Ashlyn nodded. “We needed to have that checked out. I'll try to find out when Fancourt's interview was filmed, it'd be useful too.”

“It was earlier this month, on Sunday, in his house in Chew Magna,” Ali replied.

Ashlyn was very surprised.

“How did you...?”

“I figured it'd be useful,” Ali shrugged. She seemed shy today, extra humble, introverted, serious. “I uh... it called my attention that Fancourt almost said Effigy instead of Ellie.”

“Bingo,” Ashlyn grinned in enthusiasm, temporally forgetting her troubled state of relationship with Ali. “That's precisely why I wanted to check it.” Ali pressed her lips into a small smile, forced.

“But he couldn't have known when he filmed the interview. Unless he got an early copy sooner than he said so.”

“That's right. Anyway, we'll take care of that later. Right now I have to prepare for Ingles coming in half an hour, I have to sort out what I have on her case... would you mind going to the library? The guy who said he spoke to Quine should be back from his holidays.”

“No problem I'll take care of that, but also, Ashlyn...” Ali stood up nervously, biting her lip and intertwining her hands, twisting them nervously in front of her belly. “I want to present my resignation,” Ashlyn froze on the spot, and Ali looked down, “I can stay until you can find someone else, but afterwards... I quit.”

  
  



	31. Through the fog

**Chapter 31: Through the fog.**

The detective had lost her sense of speech, and Ali had excused herself and gone to visit the librarian as she had been asked to do. A few hours later and as Ashlyn drank a second pint in her inner office, assimilating the shocking news, Ali had called to tell her, while information was still fresh in her brain, that the librarian, saying he had been in intelligence during the war, had been able to get a surprisingly accurate description of Quine's face. He was an old man, and went on saying he came looking for Jonathan Franzen's _Freedom_ , Joshua Ferris' _The Unnamed_ , and a third novel he had forgotten. According to the librarian, Quine was going away for a break and wanted stuff to read.

“I remembered that it was a Monday, because always on a Monday I buy fresh milk and I had just returned from doing so when Mr Quine arrived at the shop,” the old man had said, rather smugly. “I explained to the police that I was able to date the particular Monday precisely because that evening I went to my friend Charles’ house, as I do most Mondays, but I distinctly remembered telling him about Owen Quine arriving and discussing the five Anglican bishops who had defected to Rome that day. Charles is a lay preacher in the Anglican Church. He felt it deeply. Charles showed me some remarkable pictures of a sinkhole that appeared overnight in Schmalkalden, Germany, I was stationed nearby during the war—” he went on with enthusiasm.

Ali hurried to google such event in her phone.

“I remember that sinkhole,” she lied. “But Sir... that was a week before the Monday you're talking about.”

“No,” he said full of conviction, with dislike of being mistaken.

“But Sir,” Ali showed him the tiny screen, “it was on the news right here, I doubt they'd guess something was going to happen a week before it did, right? You definitely remember discussing Mr Quine's visit and the sinkhole in the same conversation?”

“Some mistake,” he muttered. “Is that all? Then good day to you, good day.”

Ali had recognized the stubbornness of an offended old egoist and had left, but Ashlyn was very satisfied. His statement, as she had imagined it'd happen, wasn't trustworthy.

Ashlyn was due to meet Waldegrave for lunch so, deciding she'd handle Ali later, she left the office, checking no one followed her again before going to the restaurant Jerry had told her about. Initially, Ashlyn had figured Ali would come, but now she didn't even think of telling her, because the brunette was leaving her. During the meeting, Waldegrave was nervous and drank too much, and looked visibly upset with Owen's murder. He said he couldn't shake off the idea that Owen did it to himself, even if he knew he couldn't have, for what they said in the news.

But in his drunkenness, he spoke plenty, and told Ashlyn that Tassel and Owen brooded on the wrongs Fancourt did to them, badmouthing them both for years, due to Owen's parody and Liz picking Owen over Fancourt. It was also time to learn a ton about Tassel's character, as Waldegrave told her she was so scary her first clients came out of her like they had just survived kidnap, saying she was a bully, always angry and bitter.

“Owen didn’t really wanna hurt me. Wasn’t thinking straight, silly bastard. Wanted to get back on the telly. Thought ev’ryone was against him. Didn’t realize he was playing with fire. Mentally ill.” Waldegrave said.

And then, shortly after, the confession that he was having a divorce. And he went on.

“Dan thinks I gossiped about him to Owen. Bloody idiot. Thinks the world doesn’t know… been gossip for years. Didn’t have to tell Owen. Ev’ryone knows.”

“That Chard’s gay?”

“Gay, who cares… repressed. Not sure Dan even knows he’s gay. But he likes pretty young men, likes painting ’em in the nude. Common knowledge. Joe North told me, years ago. Ah!” He had caught the wine waiter’s eye. “’Nother glass of this, please. So, Dan wanted Joe to pose for him, Joe told him to piss off, common knowledge, for years.”

Then his wife had phoned him using their daughter's phone, so he picked-up thinking it was his daughter, and a fight started, full of insults, each worse than the one before. He stormed out and Ashlyn paid the bill and ran after him, finding him outside.

“… not my fucking fault, you stupid bitch! Did I write the fucking thing? Did I?… you’d better fucking talk to her then, hadn’t you?… If you don’t, I will… Don’t you threaten me, you ugly fucking slut… if you’d kept your legs closed… you fucking heard me—,” Jerry saw her and stopped himself, hanging-up. “Bollocks. I'm so sorry.” He started crying and Ashlyn looked sadly at him.

“What's wrong?” she asked, handing him a tissue from her pocket.

“'S ruined my fucking life. That book. 'N I thought Owen... one thing he held sacred. Father daughter. One thing...”

Waldegrave turned and walked away, and Ashlyn knew there was no point following him.

Feeling miserable from women herself, Ashlyn bought herself a pint and drank it in a pub. Then, she bought herself a big bottle of beer, of the one litre ones, and she drank most of it as she went to the office, trying not to cry. She was done with Quine and the case, she was emotionally exhausted, wishing she had had her therapy on Saturday, and Waldegrave, even though saddening her now that she knew what Owen had uncovered of him, had also reminded her terribly of her drunk father having those fights with her mother, and the screams of her parents were now very present in her eardrums.

“YOU FUCKING KILLED HIM!” Tammye had shouted at times. “If you had been sober...!”

“IF I WASN'T MARRIED TO YOU, I'D BE SOBER!”

Ashlyn had her father's dimple. He had it in the right side, Ashlyn on the left, but it was there. When she was little, she had loved it. Growing up, she had despised every bit of her that reminded her of that jerk.

It was raining again, making two in the afternoon dark, foggy and cloudy again. Ashlyn only saw her through the corner of her eye, as she made her way through the alley behind the office. Tall and stooping in her black coat, hands in her pockets, scurrying along the slushy pavements behind her. Ashlyn's stalker.

There would be no mistakes this time. Ashlyn was furious. Life had her furious, and she wasn't going to fail. She was oblivious of the Stanley knife the woman who followed her was hiding, as she entered the passage from Flitcroft Street to Denmark Place, a passage plastered with flyers for bands. As Ashlyn entered the alleyway, her footsteps echoing a little off the dank walls, she slowed a little. She wasn't using a crutch anymore, with this being a new week, which marked the end of the weeks she had been told to use it, and with her leg having felt well for now, so she grabbed the bottle of beer instead. It was finished by now, and as she heard the woman run to her, she wheeled around just in time to hit her with the bottle, that she avoided by very little, and only because Ashlyn was drunk and the day was dark and foggy with the storm.

With her hand wet, the bottle slipped and fell to the ground, and Ashlyn saw the knife and punched the woman in the gut. She yelped, but she was stronger than Ashlyn had expected her to be. They hit each other quite nicely for a while, then Ashlyn slipped with a pool of water, and she screamed as she fell the knife penetrate her left shoulder.

She fell on her knees, without hurting the one that seemed to have healed, and as she looked up, expecting to die out of clumsiness and drunkenness, she saw the woman run away, apparently scared by her own actions. Unable to feel her fingers from the pain, Ashlyn got a hold of her mobile with her free hand, feeling blood dripping copiously down her arm. She was feeling incredibly dizzy, incredibly fast, but the need to call was too big to use her hand to put pressure in the wound like she ought to do.

“Ash?” Ali asked through the phone.

“Passage,” Ashlyn said. “Come quick.”

**. . .**

Tuesday morning, on November 2nd, Ashlyn blinked awake, finding herself, for the second time in less than a couple months, in a hospital room. This was surely her record, but this time she was feeling much better than the time before. She was fully awake, and not with her brain foggy of drugs, and she could only feel the faint effects of strong painkillers. Her left arm was in a sling that wrapped around her chest, but as she stretched her fingers, she felt relief wash over her, knowing she hadn't lost her arm. The upper part of her bed was bent upwards so she didn't lie flat and could see her surroundings properly, and she saw an empty room, her watch, that sat on the bedside table along with her brother's bracelet, indicating it wasn't even eight yet.

She tried to think of the day before. She had a vague memory of Ali holding her against her chest, gripping her shoulder tight with her scarf, begging her not to close her eyes, but then it was all dark. A murmur interrupted her thoughts and then Whitney, Ali, Abby and Kelley appeared, to Ashlyn's surprise. They all smiled at her, but Ashlyn noticed Ali's purple eye.

“What happened to you?” Ashlyn asked, tensing in worry, as Whitney came and kissed her cheek.

“Once you were in surgery and there was nothing else I could do, I went back to the office,” Ali was saying as she calmly left her purse on a chair in the room and poured Ashlyn a glass of water from plastic glasses and a bottle on the night stand, “and later last night, the silly sod that went after you came for me, only that I knocked her out,” the assistant smiled proudly, handing Ashlyn the water. Ashlyn, who was in fact thirsty, drank a sip while looking amazed at Ali.

“Did you? Who was she?”

“Pippa Midgley,” Ali answered, “also known as former Phillip Midgley, aka Epicoene,” Ashlyn's eyes widened as she connected the dots. “She was furious with Quine, saying he lied, she cried and all. I held her by the neck and swore on my brother's life that if she didn't start talking, I'd start breaking fingers, so she bloody said it all,” despite her calmness, Ashlyn detected fury, “so she went on and said we were working for Mrs Quine, she thought we had been hired to frame them.”

“Them?”

“Kathryn Kent and her. She thought Leonora murdered Owen and was now trying to frame them for it, with our help. She's the one who's followed us before, the one who's stabbed you in the shoulder, and the one who previously followed Leonora. She told me she followed her thinking she'd lead her to Owen so she could kill him, because... well, Owen put the manuscript through Kath's door with a note saying 'Payback time for both of us. Hope you're happy, Owen'. Kent was devastated, and so was Pippa. Pippa said she met Kent on his writing course and she was like a mother to her, and that he's a bastard who told Pippa she was his second daughter, after her mum threw her out for being trans, and he was kind and interested in a book she wrote on her life and said he'd help her publish it. He said Pippa was a beautiful lost soul and both women were in his new novel, then he read her bits over the phone, and it was beautiful, but not what later has come out. They're Harpy and Epicoene. As you know in the manuscript, they don't look well.”

“No one does.”

“Exactly. All of that after he promised them he'd leave his wife and after Kent's sister was dying.”

“Okay so he's a dickhead, we knew. But Kent said she hadn't read it.”

“Yes, she lied, what a surprise,” Ali rolled eyes with a shrug. “Pippa was absolutely furious at him for all he did, and then said Kathryn Kent's got proof Leonora killed Quine, proof that she's not revealing out of compassion. But then she managed to run away,” she said with obvious frustration.

“Has she been arrested?” Ashlyn asked, looking at Abby, who shook her head.

“We figured she might be useful for now if she's left alone. She may lead us to the killer, or be collaborative if, next time we need to interrogate her, we tell her we know she stabbed you to scare her off.”

“She apologized about stabbing you, by the way,” Ali said. “She said she didn't mean to cause big harm, she just wanted to scare you off, so you wouldn't help Leonora.”

“And then try to kill you?”

“She didn't try to kill me. I think she came to tell me the truth, but I surprised her and hit first. She was unarmed and got pretty scared when I hit her, crying and begging,” Ali explained then. “She thought she had killed you, she kept saying 'I didn't mean to kill her' while crying, until I got her to start explaining herself. Her own mother disowned her, she's full of hormones and God knows what else before getting the operation, she thought Quine and Kent were her new parents, then her new Dad reveals her to the world as half male, half female, suggesting she wanted to sleep with him. He let her down badly, but her new Mum was still good and loving, and was also betrayed, so she set out to get even for both of them. And she's not eighteen yet, and she didn't kill Owen, she's not very strong or efficient, so... I told Abby not to bother going after her, if you agree.”

Ashlyn glared at Ali, but nodded.

“Fine,” she murmured. “You're too badass for your own good, you know?”

“Amen,” Abby chuckled. “And hey, we haven't arrested Leonora yet. I personally decided to trust you and say she didn't do it, but we'll end up arresting her, Ash. There's far too much pressure from everyone in the Met, I'm the only one insisting we don't do it yet, and I'm not enough to keep them at bay.”

“One day you'll be buying me beers for this,” Ashlyn smirked at Abby, who nodded with a warm expression. “Just please take care of Leonora if... if it comes to that. I'll prove her innocence, the minute I'm out of here.”

“Will do. Now I better go before someone else gets stabbed,” Abby winked at Ashlyn and with a wave, left the room.

“Well I just wanted to check on you,” Kelley commented, as Ali and her stood by Ashlyn's bed. “You gave us the scare last night.”

“That's right, my arm's okay right? I get to go home!” Ashlyn grew enthusiastic, and looked up at Whitney for confirmation.

“You can check yourself out, but Nick said that arm's gonna be in a sling for a while,” Whitney explained, fixing Ashlyn's hair with one hand. “You were lucky the knife didn't rip off anything too serious, but there's muscle damage in the shoulder, and a bit of bone damage, and an artery was ruptured and then fixed, so you still lost quite the amount of blood, but luckily not the arm. It'll be more rehab until it's back.”

“I'll take that,” Ashlyn sat up, “I feel perfectly fine, I'm leaving.”

Kelley snorted a laugh and patted Ali's back.

“I'll leave you with this,” Kelley told her bestie, kissing her cheek. “Take care of yourself detective.”

“Thanks Kelley,” Ashlyn smiled at her, and the paramedic waved goodbye.

“I guess I'll see if the doctor can come and check you out,” Whitney said, and exited the room after her. Ashlyn and Ali glanced uncomfortably at each other.

Ashlyn realized she hadn't told Abby about her chat with Waldegrave, but it was okay. The information she had gathered wasn't such a big deal, and in any case they could speak on the phone later. The tension was breathable in the air. Last the two had truly spoken, the argument had been massive and big things had been said. There had been small apologizes in both sides afterwards, but you didn't just forget all that was said, and next, Ali had quit her job, leaving Ashlyn alone with a murder to solve, so the detective didn't feel she should tell Ali anything about the case anymore.

She cleared her throat and played with the cloth of her sling. Her shoulder was bandaged, pressing her arm against her body, but it was mostly comfortable.

“Thanks for helping me out,” Ashlyn murmured at last. Ali nodded.

“It's the least I could do,” the brunette said shyly, hands on her pockets. “Why did you call me, though? Instead of 999?”

“I knew I'd pass out before I could tell the paramedics where I was or what happened, and I knew I'd bleed out before anyone could come. You were the closest, and you knew the area well enough to know what I meant with very little information.”

“Lucky the knife was only three inches,” Ali commented, and Ashlyn nodded in agreement. “So how was it with Jerry?”

“With all due respect, Ali,” Ashlyn said, not daring to look at her, “that information is confidential. You're not my employee anymore.”

“I said I'd stay until—,”

“I don't need you to stay. I'll give you October's payroll and fifty pounds for Monday if you wish, but you don't have to come to the office anymore.”

“There's pride, and then there's stupidity, Ash. How are you going to handle all of this on your own, with your shoulder like that?”

“I'll be fine,” Ashlyn said, looking up at her, daring. “And in any case, whatever happens to Leonora, me and the agency shouldn't be of your concern anymore. We're not any of your business no more.”

Ali frowned, went to open her mouth, but Whitney entered right then, followed by the doctor. She excused herself and left, and the doctor distracted Ashlyn from her.

  
  



	32. Innocent bird

**Chapter 32: Innocent bird.**

Since Whitney had brought clean clothes to the hospital and picked-up her bloodstained ones the night before, Ashlyn could go directly to the office, where she asked Whitney to drop her off after they had breakfast at a café. Over breakfast, she had confided to her best friend all that was happening with Ali, and although Whitney was shocked, she agreed with Ashlyn that the threat over Leonora was too great to ignore and she needed to give her priority over her former assistant.

Deciding she ought to meet with Fancourt, she called him to schedule a meeting, and then devoted to a few other cases to give her money to keep standing. Ali's farewell was at least good for her economy. She went on to do some surveillances, and on the way she attended a phone-call by her old friend Dave Polworth, who asked whether she'd be coming home for Christmas. They both lived outside Cornwall, as he was in Bristol, and just like Ashlyn alternatively called him Dave or Chum, due to a piece of arm fat he had lost in Ashlyn's eyesight by messing with a shark during a holiday with his rich uncle in Australia, he alternative called her Ash or Diddy, because she was a lot like a diddicoy in her youth, the Cornish word for gypsy.

They laughed hard and he gave her some 'women advice' before Ashlyn had, feeling much better with herself, to focus on work. Then, however, after a few hours working, Leonora and Whitney called at once to inform her Leonora had been arrested, and Abby texted her with the same news. Ashlyn cursed in despair. Leonora was now in a place where she could not reach her and help her, so she worried about Leonora's odd personality getting her in trouble, about her poor skills for self-preservation. She could almost hear her complaining that Orlando was alone, demanding to know when she would be able to return to her daughter, indignant that the police had meddled with the daily grind of her miserable existence. Ashlyn prayed Whitney would get there fast, before Leonora ended-up saying something to convince everyone further that she had killed her husband, even when she hadn't.

Five o’clock in the afternoon came and went without news from Whitney. At last, when Ashlyn got home at seven, Whitney arrived ten minutes later, tired and stressed, as Ashlyn cooked dinner one-handed, helping Nick. With a glass of wine in her hand, Whitney stood in the kitchen with them.

“Could be worse... but you won't believe this. They've got proof of purchase, on the Quine's joint credit card, of protective overalls, wellington boots, gloves, a burqa and ropes, bought online and paid for with their Visa.”

“You're fucking joking,” Ashlyn's jaw dropped, her eyes widening.

“I'm just trusting you saying she's innocent, because she's not helping herself. She's aggressive as hell, she insists Quine must have bought it all himself, even the ropes that are identical to the ones found tying the corpse. Every time asking when she could go to her daughter. Everything was bought six months ago and sent to Talgarth Road. Abby's boss came in asking the hard questions, asking whether she really expected them to believe Quine never talked about what he was writing. He got Leonora to admit Owen said something about the silkworm being boiled, and that's how she got the entire Met to be convinced she'd been lying all along and knew the whole plot. And they've found disturbed earth in their back garden.”

“I bet they'll find a dead cat called Mr Poop,” grumbled Ashlyn.

“Maybe, but Abby can't do anything else. She's tried to stand in the middle and I'm surprised she hasn't been fired. She told her boss they should treat Leonora with more respect to presumption of innocence in the last interrogation, so in this one her boss wouldn't go away. They'll keep her until eleven in the morning, and then I'm sure they will charge her. They're feeling the pressure with the press and you...”

“Where did that Visa bill come from?”

“It was on the back of one of Orlando's pictures. She gave it to a friend of Owen's months ago, and this friend went to the police this morning, saying they just looked at the back now and saw what there was. What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Sounded like Tashkent?”

“Look, just please do what you can for Leonora, I'll find something good, I know.”

Ashlyn knew what had happened. Pippa Midgley, in her paranoia and her hysteria, convinced that Ashlyn had been hired by Leonora to pin the murder on somebody else, had run from her office straight to Kathryn Kent. She confessed she had blown Kathryn's pretence never to have read the damn manuscript, and urged her to use the evidence she had against Leonora. And so Kent had went. If only Ali had managed to arrest Midgley...

At eleven o'clock, Leonora Quine was charged with the murder of her husband, and Ashlyn watched the news spread online like a virus. The Sun had a full article online not an hour later, and Ali phoned Ashlyn insistently. Ashlyn ignored her calls and simply texted her.

' **I'm busy, and can't discuss anything with you. And if it's personal, I'm sure it can wait.** '

She knew how rude she had sounded, but she was so anxious and stressed she didn't care.

“Leonora will be in court tomorrow,” Whitney told Ashlyn over Wednesday lunch, as they met in a café. “Wood Green, eleven o'clock. Straight from there to Holloway, I expect.”

Ashlyn had once lived with her parents squatting in a house just three minutes from the closed women's prison that served north London.

“How is she?” Ashlyn asked her anxiously.

“She misses Orlando terribly, she's so worried and anxious about her.”

Liz Tassel phoned Ashlyn anxiously asking about Orlando between heavy coughing, with her voice raspy, and Ashlyn told her it was with the neighbour and family friend. Nina Lascelles was relieved the murderer was caught, although she felt uneasy when Ashlyn insisted they had the wrong person.

Arriving into the office on Wednesday afternoon, Ashlyn looked at Ali's empty desk filled with sadness and saw there was something that wasn't there before. She didn't know where it came from, but there was a dodo bird drawing there that Ashlyn was pretty sure Orlando had drawn, because the style was similar to drawings of her she had seen. The bird now hung from a cord pasted to the ceiling with tape, the bird suspended right above Ali's chair.

“Ali?” Ashlyn asked, but no one was there. Her copy of the keys was on her desk, also new there, next to an envelope where Ali had scribbled ' _Ashlyn_ '.

The detective walked to the dodo, caressing it with a finger and feeling her stomach drop. Then, she saw Ali had written something behind it. It said ' _You will do this. I believe in you._ ' Feeling a knot in her throat, Ashlyn exhaled deeply, wondering where her relationship with Ali had gone so wrong, and sat on the assistant's chair, grabbing the envelope and pulling out a letter.

' _Dear Ashlyn,_

 _I'm sorry Leonora was arrested, but I know it's just a matter of time before you catch the real killer. She'll come home to Dodo soon._ '

When she said 'come', did Ali mean she was there with Orlando? That'd explain how she got the dodo bird. Orlando had made it for her, because she had liked her. She went on reading.

' _I really thought I'd be there working with you, and just leave once this case was closed, and I want you to know that I am here, ready, and will do anything you need me to do, any day or night, no explanations asked._

_I also just want you to know that the only reason I quitted my job, a job that I love with my whole heart, was because after Saturday, and after our previous argument the week before, I don't feel deserving of this job, nor of you as a boss. I've felt terrible about Saturday since, and I realized I couldn't look at you in the face anymore without feeling ashamed of myself. I also realized that, when it comes to cases this important and complicated, you cannot afford the problems I've given you, and I thought that quitting would be the best for the agency._

_Now you'll be able to hire an actual partner that helps with your increased workload, someone with less dramas than me, someone you can fully count on and trust. You're going to need someone like that._

_And I'm, again, deeply sorry about what I said to you on Saturday. You were right, any other boss would've fired me, and I know it's what I deserve. I had no right talking to you like that, but I hope you know I really do appreciate your help and advice, and I will take it with me._

_If you ever need anything, please do let me know. Even if it's just for Orlando._

_I don't wish you good luck because you don't need it. Kick some ass, and thank you for everything you've given me._

_Ali x_ '

Ashlyn shoved her feelings in, clenched her jaw, and made a ball with the letter before throwing it to the bin and putting Ali's key back in her own keychain. She then focused on the files of the case, going over every photo, every note, until it was late at night.

On Thursday, she got a text from Ali. She checked, it, annoyed, while doing surveillance on another case.

' **I got you an appointment to visit Leonora at 6PM in Holloway. You just go and give them your name. Do let me know if you want to change it.** '

Ashlyn frowned, but breathed out in relief. She so wanted to see Leonora, and she thanked Ali in a text. After closing another case, at 6PM Ashlyn had made her bus rise to HMP Holloway and was called to the visitors' hall. It wasn't her first time visiting a prison, and she was unsurprised. The plastic seats were fixed either side of a small, low central table, similarly immovable, so as to minimize contact between prisoner and visitor. A toddler wailed, many kids waited to see their mothers, and that did give Ashlyn repugnance.

Leonora sat waiting, tiny and fragile, pathetically glad to see him, and wearing her own clothes.

“What happened to your arm?” Leonora had seen the sling.

“It's fine, got a bit of an accident. How are—,?”

“Orlando's visited,”Ashlyn could tell she had been crying for a long time. “With Edna and... the woman that works with you, the brunette.”

“Ali?” Ashlyn raised eyebrows, surprised. Leonora nodded.

“They had to drag her out. No one let me calm her down.”

“Well, Ali's very good with calming people down. I'm sure she did a good job comforting Orlando afterwards. Leonora, we need to talk about that credit card.” Forty-eight hours had taught her she had lost all control and power, and she was starting to look hopeless.

“I never had that card,” she said, her lips white and trembling, her voice hoarse from crying. “Only sometimes for the supermarket. Owen always had it and gave me cash. He was in charge of all the finances, like he wanted, but he was careless, never checked bills or bank statements, and he'd give anything to Orlando for her drawings, that's why it had her picture...”

“Did Elizabeth Tassel have a copy of your credit card? For when she supervised the work in Talgarth Road.”

“No, cos we offered and she said it was easier to just take it out of Owen's royalties.”

“Okay, and can you remember any occasion when Owen paid for something with that card at Roper Chard?”

“Not there, but... a couple years ago, perhaps less... there was a dinner for publishers at the Dorchester. Owen and I were at a table with the junior people. There was a silent auction for a writers' charity, to get them out of prison. Owen bid on a weekend in this country house hotel and he won, so he had to give the card and its details at the dinner. He paid eight hundred quid. He handed the key to a girl from the publishers, but she couldn't make the machine work, so she took it away and brought it back.”

“Who else was there?”

“Fancourt with his publisher, Jerry... his girlfriend coulda got at it any time, couldn't she?” she had read Ashlyn's mind.

“You knew about her?”

“Police said something... there's always been someone, he picked them up at his writing classes. When they said he was t-tied...” she started crying. “I knew it had to be a woman,” she sobbed out, her cheeks puffy and reddened, like her eyes. “He liked that.”

“Leonora... did you ever knew Kathryn Kent before police said anything?”

“One time I saw her name on a text on his phone. But he said it was nothing, he said he'd never leave Orlando and me.”

She wiped her eyes under her outdated glasses with the back of a thin, trembling hand.

“But you never saw Kathryn Kent until she came to the door to say that her sister had died?”

“Was that her, was it?” asked Leonora, sniffing and dabbing at her eyes with her cuff. “Fat, i’n’t she? Well, she could’ve got his credit card details any time, couldn’t she? Taken it out of his wallet while he was sleeping...”

“Are there any computers at your home?” Leonora shook her head. “So you never ordered shopping over the internet?”

“I did,” Ashlyn's heart sank a little. She had hoped Leonora was that almost mythical beast: a computer virgin. “At Edna's, to order Orlando an art set for her birthday.”

“One last thing, Leonora,” continued the detective, “did Owen say anything to you about meaning to go away or take a break days before he walked out?”

“No, no. If he knew he was going, why wouldn't he say goodbye?” she began to cry with a hand over her mouth, and Ashlyn pressed her lips, hating it was forbidden to hug her. “What's going to happen to Dodo? Edna can't handle her forever...”

“I'm going to get you out,” Ashlyn said, more confident than she felt. “I believe in your innocence, Leonora, I will bring you home, just trust me. And in the meantime, Ali will help Edna with Dodo. She'll know what to do, she always does.”

Their time was up. Ashlyn left the prison without looking back, wondering what it was about Leonora, faded and grumpy, fifty years old with a brain-damaged daughter and a hopeless life, that had inspired in her this fierce determination, this fury…

 _Because she didn’t do it_ , came the simple answer. _Because she’s innocent_. In the last eight months a stream of clients had pushed open the engraved glass door bearing her name and the reasons they had sought Ashlyn's services had been that they wanted a spy, a weapon, a means of redressing some balance in their favour or of divesting themselves of inconvenient connections. They came because they sought an advantage, because they felt they were owed retribution or compensation. Because overwhelmingly, they wanted more money.

But Leonora had come to Ashlyn because she wanted her husband to come home. It had been a simple wish born of weariness and of love, if not for the errant Quine then for the daughter who missed him. For the purity of her desire, Ashlyn felt he owed her the best she could give.

  
  



	33. Friends help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year ;)

**Chapter 33: Friends help.**

Marcus Ellacott was Nick's only sibling, and had been a little brother for Ashlyn through years of relationship. On Friday, as Ashlyn arrived at the River Café just by the Thames, and just inside the door, she saw Marcus, dirty blonde and with deep blue eyes like his brother, but with a less rectangular face and without Nick's stubble, also a head shorter than Nick, who was pretty tall. He was a handsome man, and was in friendly conversation with the barman.

Seeing Ashlyn, Marcus beamed and jumped to hug her.

“How are you, sis? What happened to that arm?”

“Difficult case,” Ashlyn smiled, and patted his arms. “You? Your girl?”

“We're very happy!” he then smirked and whispered. “We're expecting.” Ashlyn's eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“Really? Congratulations! When's the baby coming?”

“March, we cannot wait. Always wanted a kiddo. Nick told me about you and Beth, what a shame. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay, for the better,” Ashlyn followed him to their table. “About four weeks ago tonight, a writer called Owen Quine had a row with his agent right here. The whole restaurant must've seen it. He stormed out and shortly afterwards—,”

“He was murdered, I saw it in the paper, you found him. Isn't Whit defending his wife?”

“Yes.”

“And you gonna pull another Lula Landry? Mock the police?” he added with excitement.

“That's the plan.”

“I'll sound the staff,” amused, Ashlyn watching him get up and speak to a waitress while Ashlyn drank the wine he had ordered them. “This is Loulou,” Marcus said, coming back with a dark girl in a white apron. “She was here that night. Tell him, Lou.”

“It was really loud, brought the place to standstill, everyone shut up and watched. It was a fat man with a hat, yelling at a woman who looked older, her hair had gone grey. The writer, the man, he loved causing a scene, he was yelling and swearing, but everyone could tell it was for show, he wanted everyone to hear him, an audience... shit actor if you ask me.”

“Can you maybe remember what he said?” Ashlyn inquired then.

“He called her a bitch, said she lied, that he was going to publish the book on his own and fuck her. But it was fake fury, he was enjoying it. And the woman was furious, not pretending. She got redder and redder, shaking with anger, was going to explode. She was mortified when he stormed out, had to pay the bill. She went to the loo and left.”

“That's really helpful, thank you. Remember anything else they said?”

“Yeah, he shouted 'all because of Fancourt and his limp fucking dick',” Ashlyn snorted a laugh. “She tried to shout him down, but he loved the attention. Sorry, I've got to get going... See you, Marcus.”

_All because of Fancourt and his limp fucking dick…_

Odd.

_I can’t shake this mad bloody idea that Owen did it to himself. That he staged it…_

“Are you OK, Ash?” Marcus inquired across her.

A note with a kiss: Payback time for both of us…

“Yeah,” she nodded, her mind far away.

_Load of gore and arcane symbolism… stoke that man’s vanity and you could get him to do anything you wanted… two hermaphrodites, two bloody bags… A beautiful lost soul, that’s what he said to me… the silkworm was a metaphor for the writer, who has to go through agonies to get at the good stuff…_

Like the turning lid that finds its thread, a multitude of disconnected facts revolved in the detective's mind and slid suddenly into place, incontrovertibly correct, unassailably right. She turned her theory around and around: it was perfect, snug and solid.

But she didn't know yet how to prove it.

When she went to visit Kathryn Kent the next day, a neighbour informed her that the woman had gone, running from the press, for a few days, but he promised to call her when she came back. Ashlyn also phoned Jerry, but he didn't pick up. Ashlyn knew now that his divorce was partially because his daughter wasn't his, and she understood he'd be too much in a mess to answer his phone. The weekend, with no way of advancing in the case, proved difficult, as her thoughts kept travelling back to Ali and, mostly, to Lisbeth, now engaged to a freaking duke, so she had to wait until Monday for any action.

But when Monday came, she had a plan.

Following a hunch, Ashlyn went to visit Orlando Quine at the neighbour's house. As she was welcomed by Edna, the next-door neighbour and the Quine's only friend, she could, as she had expected, hear Ali's voice in the back, talking with Orlando.

“Your colleague has been so kind coming over every day,” Edna said as they went inside. “She keeps telling Orlando not to worry, that you'll bring her Mum back.”

“Hello,” Ashlyn smiled as she entered a small, cramped living room. Ali looked up, surprised. She had deep bags under her eyes and was sitting with Orlando on the floor, around a coffee table, where there were both drawing and having tea and biscuits. Orlando looked up at her.

“Where's my Mummy?” Orlando asked Ashlyn.

“Not here yet, sorry,” Ashlyn said apologetic, coming into the room. Edna went to make more tea, and Ashlyn smiled small at Ali and sat in front of them on the floor. “But I think you can help me bring her back, would you want to do that?” Orlando nodded ferviently.

“She's been very upset,” Edna said, coming back with the tea. “But Ali has been great help, cheering her up. She seems someone else when Ali's around. You do like being with your friend Ali, right sweetie?” Orlando looked up at Ali, and smiled back at the brunette.

Ashlyn beamed, and looked down at the drawings covering the table. Most of it were birds. Ali was a fantastic drawer, for what she could see. Ashlyn had noticed that Orlando's orang-utan was a pyjama case, it had space inside where she stored everything she stole.

“Did your Daddy give you that monkey, Orlando?” Ashlyn asked, pointing to her orang-utan.

“Yes,” Orlando nodded. “My Daddy died.” Ashlyn pressed her lips and nodded.

“You know, when I was little, I had a pyjama case too, but mine wasn't as cool as a monkey. I had a shark.”

“That's a big fish,” Orlando said.

“That's right. I used to keep inside everything that truly mattered to me, like presents or... my favourite books. Do you keep your favourite things in yours?”

“Yes. I got many drawings,” Orlando said. “And things I steal.” Ashlyn smiled warmly at her.

“Would you show me what those things are?” Ashlyn asked. Orlando looked reticent, hugging her monkey closer, and Ashlyn grabbed a sheet of paper from the table and a blue pen. “What if I do something for you, uh? I can give you a shark. Bet you don't have one yet? And I'll put seagulls. I come from the beach, we have many of those where I come from.”

While Ashlyn painted, Orlando observed attentively.

“Where d'you come from?” Orlando inquired.

“It's called St. Mawes,” Ashlyn answered, looking up at her for a moment. “We've got many fishes there. Colourful ones. But you prefer birds, right?” Orlando nodded. “We've got some birds too. Seagulls, mostly, but also cormorants, robins...”

“Dodos?” Orlando asked. Ali smiled looking at her. She loved to see her with Ashlyn.

“I wish, but no, unfortunately not,” Ashlyn answered, handing her a beautiful drawing of a shark, with birds flying over it. “That would make St. Mawes too good.”

“Shark...” Orlando passed a finger over the drawing. “You're good drawing.”

“Thanks,” Ashlyn said. “Can I see your drawings now?”

Orlando nodded and started taking all sorts of things from her orang-utan. Crumpled pictures, coloured papers, and Ali made admiring comments and asked questions about a starfish and dancing angles that Orlando had drawn in crayon. Loving the appreciation and attention, Orlando dug deeper in her pyjama case and pulled a used typewriter cartridge, oblong and grey, with a thin strip tape carrying the reversed words it had printed, also coloured pencils, a box of mints, several pictures,including a butterfly through which could be seen traces of untidy adult writing... then there were stickers, postcards, fridge magnets, a mocked-up book cover...

Ali seemed to know Ashlyn was looking for something, and as they picked things randomly and chatted in admiration, asking Orlando the story of things or what this and that were. Sometimes, Ali slid things to Ashlyn, like a paper with scribbled names behind a picture. _Sam Breville, Eddie Boyne... Edward Baskinville? Stephen Brook?_ Ashlyn grabbed the typewriter cassette that had been used, her heart drumming in her chest.

“Orlando,” Ashlyn said then. “Would you mind if I steal this? Just to bring Mummy back. I'll return it to you next time we meet.”

Orlando looked from the cassette to her, and nodded.

“Okay. You can steal it,” she smirked naughtily, and Ashlyn laughed, putting the typewriter ribbon cassette inside an evidence back, making sure not to touch it by grabbing it using some of the paper on the table.

“Ali, can I speak to you in private for a second?” Ashlyn asked Ali then. Ali nodded, and the two walked over to the bathroom, locking the door after them. “I think I know who the killer is,” she said right away, and Ali gasped, “but I need you to do something for me, right now. I have to meet Fancourt, so I can't go myself.”

“Anything. I'll do anything.”

Later on the same day, Ashlyn had to meet Fancourt at a club he belonged to. While she did so, Ali was out doing the task Ashlyn had asked her to do, even though Orlando had cried when Ali had left after Ashlyn. Fancourt was as egocentric as Ashlyn had seen on TV, if not more, but when she asked him why did he think Liz Tassel let him leave when he gave her more money, Fancourt told her Liz and Quine were sleeping together.

Apparently, Liz had arrived at their university, where they had met, a clever woman who had been helping her father, a farmer, castrate bulls, and she was desperate to get laid, but no one fancied her much. She had a thing for Michael Fancourt himself, but he never liked her like that, and they remained friends. He had introduced her to Quine, and they had gotten some action going. By then, Quine was married, so it didn't become popular knowledge.

In his vanity, it was Fancourt's idea that Liz was so desperate to avoid celibacy, that she wasn't going to drop Quine.

“You were injured and invalidated out of the Navy, weren't you?” Fancourt asked Ashlyn then, changing topics.

“Yes.”

“How did it happen?”

“A bomb. So what about Talgarth Road? If you weren't speaking with Owen, how did you communicate about the place?”

“Through third people.”

“Have you never gone to it? In... twenty-odd years?”

“Twenty-five. No, not since Joe died. The police says some woman saw me, but she was mistaken.”

“Why did you and Owen dislike the house so much?”

“Because our friend died there in shitty circumstances. He hated hospitals and didn't want to hear a word about medication. By the time he fell unconscious, the place was disgusting and he was a sack of bones.”

“And when you continued with Joe's book, what changes did you do?”

“Joe was a brilliant writer, I only had to tidy it up and polish the ending. He'd left notes about how he wanted it done. Then I took it to Jerry, who was with Roper. He had a great reputation and collaborated with me, he did a very good job.”

“Jerry thinks the Cutter character is about you, what do you know of that?”

“Everyone knows I'm Vainglorious, you'll have to ask Waldegrave that... but I've got a feeling you think you know, Mrs—,”

“Ms.”

“Ms Harris. And I'll tell you this: Quine was very wrong, which he should've known.”

They continued to talk, and discussed the parody Quine wrote that caused Fancourt's wife to commit suicide. Fancourt was sure Quine had been the writer. He also believed that Liz, who denied reading the parody before it was published, had in fact read it, and pushed him to publish it, since she was jealous of Fancourt's late wife.

As they continued to discuss case-related things, mostly _Bombyx Mori_ , Ashlyn learned that Fancourt had read it on the day of the TV interview she had seen. Ashlyn commented on his mistake saying his late wife's name, but Fancourt hadn't had time to finish the book yet, so he said it was a coincidence that his wife was called Effigy in the book. When Ashlyn insinuated he might've sent Kathryn Kent an early copy of the manuscript, he denied it, but right then pulled out his wallet to leave.

Ashlyn pulled out some cash, but Fancourt held up a hand and said, with unmistakable offensiveness:

“No, no, allow me. Your press coverage makes much of the fact that you have known better times. In fact, it puts me in mind of Ben Jonson: 'I am a poor gentleman, a soldier; one that, in the better state of my fortunes, scorned so mean a refuge'.”

The detective snorted a laugh in amusement.

“Really? I’m put more in mind of 'sicine subrepsti mi, atque intestina pururens ei misero eripuisti omnia nostra bona? Eripuisti, eheu, nostrae crudele uenenum Uitae, eheu nostrae pestis amicitiae.”

Ashlyn then looked unsmilingly at Fancourt’s astonishment. The writer rallied quickly.

“Ovid?”

“Catullus,” Ashlyn added. He was one of her most favourite writers, after all. “Translates roughly: So that’s how you crept up on me, an acid eating away my guts, stole from me everything I most treasure? Yes, alas, stole: grim poison in my blood the plague, alas, of the friendship we once had.' Well, I expect we’ll see each other around,” she said then, pleasantly.

And with Fancourt's eyes on her back, she left.

  
  



	34. Evidence and crime

**Chapter 34: Evidence and crime.**

Back at home, Ashlyn locked herself in her bedroom and with latex gloves she had from her time as a SIB, she carefully examined the typewriter roll that Quine had once used and read the reversed words:

YOB EIDDE WENK I THGUOHT DAH I DN

Her sudden rush of adrenalin made her smile for herself. Tightening the tape again, she put it safely back in the evidence bag, removed the latex gloves and called her friend Dave Polworth.

“What's up Diddy?”

“I need a big favour Chum, for the Quine case.”

The engineer would be over a hundred miles away in his sitting room in Bristol, and he was comfortably sitting as he listening without interrupting until the detective had explained to him all she wanted it done.

“Got two days off coming up... but you say this is life or death, right? I'll take advantage and use them for this,” Dave said.

“Life and liberty, mate. It'll be dangerous, though.”

“Don't insult me, I've done worse. I'll call you when it's done.”

“Stay safe mate.”

“Piss off.”

Ashlyn was grinning. Dave enjoyed danger and she needed desperate measures now.

For two days, Ali returned to the office with an empty evidence bag, and Ashlyn warned her to be careful, as it was important no one saw her, even if it took her longer to do what she had asked her. Ali was very good-looking, and it was memorable, recognizable, so she wore a beanie every time she went for this. But Ashlyn had to worry, even more now that danger seemed so palpable, that she knew they had a cold-blooded killer breathing in their necks.

When Dave's days off resulted in nothing, Dave told her not to give up, that he was going to try again pulling a sickie Monday and going again. He was dying to show up the Met. And later called Katheryn Kent's neighbour, and for what he had to say, Ashlyn had a feeling Pippa Midgley was with her.

Ashlyn and Ali went together, the detective's arm still in a sling, as it would be for at least a couple weeks. She was back in therapy and rehab, on the weekends, when she was most available, but it'll take time to heal.

“Kathryn?” Ashlyn hit the doorbell. “I've got very important information for you. You need to hear this.”

“Who are you? Are you a journalist?”

“I'm Ashlyn Harris. And unless you let me come in,” Ashlyn said, losing her cool, “and speak to you and your friend Pippa, I will get Pippa in prison for attempted murder. She might remember stabbing me, and I've got full memory of the event and a ton of evidence.”

The door opened and Kathryn opened with an unfriendly expression.

“Going around assaulting people was doomed to backfire, Kath,” Ali said. “Please, let us in. There's a killer out there walking freely and you're in danger.”

“It was that woman!” Kathryn yelled. “She was arrested.

“It wasn't her,” Ali said. “We wouldn't be here, in the cold, if we weren't sure, don't you think?”

“I got better things to do,” said Ashlyn. “But hey, if you ladies don't want to listen, I can just go to my friend in the Met and tell her I've changed my mind about presenting charges against Pippa, and since I'm calling, I might also comment with her that she's right and you are the actual killer.”

“What?” she yanked the door open and let them in.

They entered a small living room, and Pippa looked just as unfriendly from the sofa, but also terrified.

“What do you want?” Pippa asked.

Ashlyn and Ali had discussed the plan on their way there. They both knew what to do.

“I didn't kill him,” Kathryn snapped. “Why would police think I did?”

“You had the card bill, could've copied it, could've stolen it, could've set Leonora up,” said Ashlyn. “But I don't think you did it, lucky you.”

“Orlando gave it to me!” Kathryn yelled. “I never even looked in the back for weeks! I was being nice, taking her crappy picture!”

“We believe you Kath, I promise,” Ali reassured her. “Ash is not like police. She didn't present charges against Pippa because she knew Pippa was just protecting those she cared about, and she wants to prove the police wrong about you too, she knows you're a good person.”

“That makes no sense,” said Pippa, “if police thought Kath did it, then why arrest the other woman?”

“Press is putting so much pressure,” Ashlyn explained. “And I've got stuff against both of you to help them put both of you between bars with Leonora. But if you help me, I may forget.”

“Pippa's got temper issues,” Kath said, putting an arm around her. “I didn't told her to do that. She thought you had been hired to fit us up, she lost control, she never meant to get so carried away...”

“We understand,” Ali assured. “Of course. So, help us?”

Kathryn nodded.

“Want a drink?”

“Tea would be nice,” said Ashlyn.

Between Ashlyn and Ali, they got the women to talk about what Owen Quine had told them about _Bombyx Mori_. Apparently, Owen had told the women that it was going to be the writer's journey, and they would appear as beautiful lost souls. He wanted for it to be a nice surprise for the women. The same neighbour that had informed Ashlyn of their whereabouts claimed to have seen Owen slide the manuscript into their mailbox, but it was on a date in which Ashlyn and Ali knew he couldn't be alive, because he had already gone missing. And the lights outside in the corridor didn't work, so what the neighbour actually saw was a shadow at two in the morning.

Kathryn said the note attached to the manuscript was clearly Owen's handwriting, but if Ashlyn's theory was right, the detective knew his handwriting could've been imitated by the killer, because it was close enough to Owen to have known it perfectly well.

According to both women, Owen had been disconnected since the night he had gone missing. Shortly after the manuscript had arrived, then Kathryn's sister died and Kathryn decided to go and find the bastard, so she went to the house and found out he was gone, so she told Leonora to tell Owen that Angela was dead. It took a lot of crying for Kathryn to tell them all of that, but Ali and Pippa comforted her through it, and Ashlyn tried not to be too rough, and to be understanding. But Pippa still had to open brandy for them four.

Kathryn then told them about other people around Quine. Jerry was a lovely sweetheart, Michael Fancourt was arrogant but charming, and then Liz Tassel was a snobby old cow, but because Fancourt was there.

“Fancourt told me Owen and Tassel once had an affair,” said Ashlyn.

“Owen and Elizabeth Tassel?” Kathryn laughed, for the first time, and did so hysterically, joined by Pippa shortly.

“Never,” panted Katheryn, “in a million... years...”

“Supposedly a long time ago?” Ashlyn inquired.

“You don't understand,” Kathryn dabbed at her eyes wit with mirth. “He thought she was awful, disgusting, horrible... he always talked about everyone he'd slept with, he wasn't a gentleman like that, I'd have known if they ever... but no, never.”

“But you don't know what the Cutter really meant?” Ali asked about another book character.

“I do know, it was just awful to do it to Jerry. Owen tells me not to mention it to anyone and then he goes and puts it in the bloody novel... but all right... Owen told me Jerry's marriage has been on the rocks for years, and Fenella a few months back told him their daughter might not be his. That she might be Fancourt's,” Ashlyn confirmed her suspicions. “The dwarf with the big head, the baby she thought of aborting because she didn't know whose it was... The Cutter with his cuckold's horns... see? And Owen told me to keep my mouth shut, 'cause it's not funny. Jerry _loves_ his daughter, is the only good thing he's got. Fancourt never wanted kids and would've hated to find out he had a daughter.”

As they left the women, Ashlyn, who hadn't drunk alcohol, marvelled on Ali's slight tipsiness. The brunette lit herself a cigarette as they walked away, offering her one that the detective refused. Then, Dave called her.

“Guess what, Diddy?” Dave said through the line with a laugh.

“You're kidding!”

“Got the lot mate.”

“Holy shit! For real?”

“Bagged up here, waiting for you.”

“I'll send someone for it first thing tomorrow.”

“I'm going to have a nice hot bath now,” said Dave.

“Chum, you're a bloody fucking—,”

“I know, we'll talk about my credit later.”

“Sounds like good news,” Ali said, looking at Ashlyn's expression of glee as the call ended. Ashlyn hadn't told her a word of her theory, only the strictly necessary for Ali to help her here, with Orlando, and with the mission she had assigned her and that she was still trying to accomplish.

“Pretty good indeed,” Ashlyn nodded. Ali forced a small smile and looked away, taking a long drag from her fag. She seemed sad in Ashlyn's eyes, and Ashlyn knew why. She was helping Ashlyn, yet the detective wasn't sharing her theories, what had made her so happy, nor even the suspect's name. But she couldn't share it if Ali didn't work for her, she was saddened by the status of their relationship as well, and she hoped that maybe keeping her out of news would make Ali realize she had to come back. She wanted for the younger girl to ask her to come back, maybe even beg. She had her pride, after all. “Listen, Ali. Thank you for your help, big time, and particularly about what I know you will accomplish as I asked you to do.”

“I said I'd do anything,” Ali said simply, dragging her words a little, because she hardly needed two drops of water to get drunk. “For Orlando. Anything. And for you, of course.”

The taller woman nodded in appreciation.

“I'm very grateful for that. And I've got to admit that going and taking care of Orlando for hours and hours, daily... that was the kindness, most thoughtful event of this entire case. That girl is lucky to have you.”

Ali shrugged.

“I figured if I wasn't useful to you anymore, I could still help someone else,” the brunette murmured. “They taught me in football, that when you don't play a game it doesn't mean your duty ends. You have to do anything you can do to keep your team successful. I knew you'd be busy so... and besides, Orlando is a very sweet company. She's like horses. Just takes you with open arms and genuinely cares, even when you're a complete stranger. She always cries when I leave.”

“You'll have to keep visiting her when we bring her mother back.”

“We?” Ali looked up, surprised. Her eyes looked a bit glassy under the street lamp.

“Yes, Ali. You've done a huge load here. I don't think they'll forget it, and neither will I. Now go home, okay? I'll get you a cab.”

“No, there's no need—,”

“Let's call it a thank you gift. You're too tipsy for me to be sure you'll get in the right train.”

The next day, when Ali ran into her office at twelve in the morning yelling I DID IT!!! with the most victorious tone, Ashlyn grinned to her own reflection in the window. They had done it. They had the killer.

  
  



	35. Catching the insect

**Chapter 35: Catching the insect.**

When Ashlyn called Abby to give her the evidence they had collected, Abby was very excited, but regretted to tell her she had been taken off the case. Apparently, Abby had caught a stomach infection that had her in bed with high fevers, so the case was now being handled by her very jerk of a boss. She'd be fine, she had gone to the doctor and she had also called Nick, but she'd have to stay in bed rest for a week, as she was highly contagious, puking her guts out and feeling terrible. Even her wife had had to move to the guest bedroom.

So after wishing her a fast recovery and promising to visit when she was less contagious, Ashlyn phoned Abby's superior in the Met. But after a huge argument on the phone, the officer refused her help. He said the rag found at the Quines had Owen's blood on it, he was in love with his theory that Leonora committed the murder, not willing to change his mind, didn't matter all the evidence Ashlyn had. Ashlyn got so furious that Ali was too intimidated to tell her she might've fucked up. She had tried to tell her along with the good news, but Ashlyn had phoned the police far too fast, not giving her time.

“Fuck it,” Ashlyn snarled, flopping on the sofa at the office, “shock and awe, no choice. Marcus and Nick will do.”

“Who's Marcus?”

“Nick's little brother. And Nick started as a gastroenterologist before he moved forward into general surgery... he'll be useful.”

She stormed into the inner office, slamming the door with a fury Ali, who had seen her furious, hadn't known of her. Not knowing what else to do or even if she should stay, Ali filled the kettle, her heart hammering, to make them tea. She let the mugs cool down while waiting, without touching them.

Fifteen minutes later, Ashlyn emerged, visibly calmer, and sipped from her tea without giving away any evidence that she didn't want Ali there.

“All right, I've got a plan but I'm going to need you. Are you up for it?”

“Of course!” Ali couldn't help her excitement at being counted on.

After Ashlyn told her the plan, revealing who she thought had murdered Owen, Ali looked to be in awe. It was a difficult plan who would require a lot of luck, but they were feeling lucky, considering their advance.

“So?” asked Ashlyn.

“No problem.”

“We might not need you.”

“Right.”

“But also you could be key.”

“Understood. I want to do it. But I should practise, though.”

“Oh, right, fair enough. You got until Thursday.”

**. . .**

When Thursday came, the Chelsea Arts Club was ready. It stood in a leafy, quiet street while it rained heavily, falling fast and hitting with violence the citizens' faces. Ashlyn was standing under her umbrella in the alley off Old Church Street, watching as Jerry Waldegrave, Daniel Chard, Elizabeth Tassel... all went into the club, rushing inside as fast as they could to keep themselves away from the rain. Ashlyn walked deeper in the alley and called Marcus on the mobile.

“They're all in the dining room, about a dozen of them,” said Marcus.

“Coming in now,” said Ashlyn.

Her knee felt like a new one, and she rushed inside with no problems. She wore a suit, with her arm, in a sling while her shoulder healed, had the jacket over it, without sliding the arm inside. Putting the shirt had been difficult enough. Strike was let into the club at once giving his name and saying he was there as Chef Graham McArthur's guest. Graham was Marcus' father-in-law, and he was a famous chef who owned some of England's most important five-forks restaurants.

“Thanks for this, Mr McArthur,” Ashlyn told the older man. McArthur was a huge fan of literature, most certainly English, and he was old friends of Jerry, so he knew everyone and, when asked about making a huge party to honour English literature, he had agreed. Then, he had also known Ashlyn's plan.

“I'm more than happy to help with this,” McArthur grinned. “Marcus speaks wonders of you, and I trust my man.” He added smiling proudly at Marcus, who grinned, standing next to him in his suit with his wife Ilsa.

“I only wish Nick and Whit would witness this,” Marcus commented, making them laugh.

The club was so noisy and packed it was hard to see much of it. The walls were liberally covered in prints, paintings and photographs, giving it a country house vibe. Luckily for the detective, she was so tall that she could see over the crowd’s heads towards the windows at the rear of the club. Beyond lay a large garden lit by exterior lights so that it was illuminated in patches. There, the storm was soaking everything it touched.

Reaching the bar, Ashlyn ordered drinks for her friends, and glanced around at the Roper Chard party, that filled several long wooden tables, eating and talking. Whoever had been in charge of the placement, Ashlyn saw, had sat Elizabeth Tassel and Michael Fancourt well apart. Fancourt sat opposite Chard, and Elizabeth Tassel was sitting next to Jerry Waldegrave. The detective fetched herself a whiskey while she observed.

“What are you doing here?” Nina said, and Ashlyn noticed her next to her. She was in a strappy black dress, and she wasn't flirtatious anymore. Ashlyn had never called after their last encounter.

“Hi! Didn't expect you here, being a Roper Chard party I thought they didn't invite anything but the bigger names.”

“I'm taking over many of Jerry's authors now he's leaving.”

“Congrats!”

“Why are you here?”

“Doing what I was hired to do. I got a contact.”

“So you didn't think of using me again then?”

“I'm sorry about that,” said Ashlyn, truly sorry. “If it helps, I really did enjoy time with you. And if I wasn't so busy, I would've pursued something further, truly,” she added, as Nina puffed.

“What happened to your arm anyway?”

“I got stabbed in my shoulder,” Nina raised eyebrows.

“You're such a fake,” Nina left, and Ashlyn rolled eyes, puffing.

Ilsa's bright red Alfa Romeo Spider, lent for the occasion, sat parked a little down the road. As Ashlyn intended, half of the Roper Chard table was now aware of her presence, some glaring at her, some ignoring her. Eventually, Waldegrave went to the bathroom and, coming back, went to Ashlyn.

“Hi, didn't expect you here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah... you're making people a little uncomfortable with that staring,” Ashlyn snorted a laugh, but didn't look away from them, and handed Ashlyn a blank white envelope from an inside pocket. “What's this?”

“For you,” said Ashlyn. “It's something you should think about. Fancourt had mumps, you know? Before his wife died. It's why he missed Joe's funeral.”

“What?”

“Never had kids,” Ashlyn said softly, “pretty sure he's infertile. I thought you might like to know.”

Waldegrave stared at him, opened his mouth, found nothing to say, then walked away. Ashlyn smiled small. If cards were played right tonight, more than one wrong would be corrected. More than one person's suffering would end.

Jerry sat back down, opened the envelope and puzzled, pulled out a second envelope with a name on it. He looked up at Ashlyn, who nodded, and after a moment of hesitation, he gave it to Tassel, who frowned and looked at Ashlyn. Ashlyn smiled and toasted her with her glass. After a moment of uncertainty, Tassel passed the envelope on, until it travelled across the table into Michael Fancourt's hands.

“I'll be in the garden Marcus, keep your phone on and your eyes wide open.”

Ashlyn went into the cold, rainy garden, and got protected from the rain by a few metres of ceiling that covered the garden in the area right by the façade. She finished her drink there, and turned back to the windows. If she knew this man, he would come. It was too irresistible. Sure enough, Fancourt appeared.

“Ms Harris? Would it not be easier to go on to the street?”

“I'd rather do this here.”

“I see. So what's going on?”

“After weeks of investigation, there has been one thing everyone agrees on. This _Bombyx Mori_ is not like Owen, only bears a vague resemblance to him. Someone heard part of the book that it's not in the manuscript we all know.”

“I guess he cut parts.”

“And there are duplications from his earlier works, too many. Two hermaphrodites, bloody rags, and a lot of gratuitous sex.”

“Owen's imagination was very limited.”

“Except that he scribbled a note with a bunch of names, like possible character names, one of which appears on a used typewriter cassette that came out of his study before the police sealed it off. The name is not in the manuscript.”

Fancourt shrugged.

“He changed his mind.”

“It's an everyday name. The manuscript ones are all symbolic and archetypal. On another side, a restaurant full of people witnessed what I'm pretty sure was Quine's last meal and last public appearance. Do you know what Quine shouted? That one of the reasons Tassel was too cowardly to represent the book was Fancourt's limp dick. But this book says nothing about your dick, nothing about what the original version reportedly contained... and you don't pour acid on silkworms. You boil them.”

“So?”

“So I've realized the _Bombyx Mori_ we all read was not written by Owen Quine.”

“But it's his style...”

“Funny you said that. Daniel Chard thought he saw Waldegrave's voice in the book. Waldegrave thought it was Tassel's, and Fisher heard you.”

“Quine was trying to imitate a better writer,” Fancourt said smugly.

“The only real revelation of that book is the insinuation that you fathered Joanna Waldegrave. Everything else was either public domain, public gossip, or easy, simple accusations.”

“That accusation is not only false but impossible. I am infertile, as Quine should have known.”

“Exactly, because you both were in good terms when you had mumps and he'd already made a jibe about it in _The Balzac Brothers,_ which makes the accusation in the Cutter even stranger, doesn't it? As if who wrote it didn't know you were infertile. Didn't that occur to you?”

“I never thought Owen cared about the truth. He just wanted to cause as much trouble as possible.”

“Think maybe that's why he sent you an early copy?” When Fancourt didn't answer, she went on. “You know, it's easily checkable, courier, postal service... there are records. You might just tell me.”

“All right. I got it. The day after he was last seen, for what I've heard. And I burned it, he was just trying to provoke a public row, maximize publicity.”

Suddenly, Elizabeth Tassel appeared, wrapped in a heavy coat with a fur collar, “is going on out here?”

“Mr Fancourt, you thought Ms Tassel's writing was 'lamentably derivative', isn't that right? As you both studied together Jacobean revenge tragedies. But you're great imitating other writers,” Ashlyn added, looking to Tassel at last. “For example, you took off Elspeth Fancourt's style to perfection. I always thought Owen had had to have some hold on you, because you wouldn't let yourself be turned into a private bank, choosing Owen over Fancourt. You wrote the parody of Elspeth Fancourt's book that made her kill herself. You showed it to Owen. Not the other way around, as you claimed.”

There was silence except for the stormy rain. Fancourt, open-mouthed, looked from one to the other, and Tassel glared at Ashlyn, frozen in place. But Ashlyn hadn't finished.

“The police thought Quine blackmailed you,” the detective went on, “but you gave them that touching story about lending the money for Orlando. But you've been paying Owen for over twenty-five years, haven't you? You're so full of rage and frustration... did it feel good, raping and killing your way through everyone you knew? One huge explosion of malice and obscenity to revenge yourself on everyone, making you look like an unacclaimed genius—,”

“No, Ms Harris,” Tassel said. Her voice sounded strange, unfamiliar, mad. “You poor silly woman... you poor thing,” she forced a laugh that made her wheeze. She then looked at Fancourt. “She's the daughter of that footballer who killed his son in a car accident and then tried to kill his wife. He's in prison for it, but her mother killed herself from the pain. And then she was hurt in Iraq, her ship sunk, killing a bunch of people. She's brain damaged and traumatized, poor silly thing... you just need help, don't you, Ms Harris?”

“I've had a lot of help,” Ashlyn smiled coldly. “And if you had too, you'd know you shouldn't use those acids without a mask, Elizabeth. The fumes screwed your lungs up for real, burned you inside out,” the agent's eyes darkened and enlarged, her pupils dilating with adrenaline. “Ropes, disguise, protective clothing... but you didn't realize you'd get internal damage from inhaling those fumes. That's science for you, and I was bloody good at it, despite my failures. You've gone mad, Elzizabeth. You've wasted your life. Your business down the toilet, no love, no children... was there ever an abortive coupling between the two of you?” Ashlyn looked at both of them. “This 'limp dick' thing Owen said... sounds to me like it came from the real manuscript. Oh...” as the detective saw them separate from each other like a breaking once united front, she saw it. “It was after Elspeth, maybe? But then you moved on to Fenella Waldegrave, right Michael? And there, no trouble keeping it up, right?”

“Fucks sakes,” Fancourt growled, furious with Ashlyn now. Elizabeth Tassel's whistling lungs struggled for oxygen.

“Must've made you furious, Elizabeth, when Owen started shouting about the real contents of the real novel in the River Café, getting carried away even after you warned him not to breathe a word—,”

“You're fucking insane. Trauma must've really done you in—,”

“Nice,” Ashlyn laughed. “The bullying bitch everyone told me you were. I may be screwed Elizabeth, but at least I go to therapy. Maybe if you had, you wouldn't be such a waste.”

“You're just like poor Owen, trying to get in the papers—,”

“You encouraged Quine to hide in Talgarth Road,” added Ashlyn, over Tassel's mumbles of 'I won't listen more'. “Owen was a glutton for praise, that's right, so he told you all the prospective plot for _Bombyx Mori_ months ago, and I think Michael here was in there in some form, nothing as crude as Vainglorious, right Michael? But mocked for not getting it up, perhaps? What was it? 'Payback time for both of you', eh?”

Elizabeth gasped and stopped her frantic chanting, her breathing hard.

“You,” Ashlyn glared at Elizabeth, “told Quine that _Bombyx Mori_ sounded brilliant, a massive success, but that he better keep it top secret until it was published, just in case someone took legal action, and that way he'd make a big splash of it when it was published. You used those months to write your own version. Twenty-six years of empty evenings, you could've written so many books... but what would you write about, with an empty life?” the detective wanted the agent to crack, but it was proving difficult, although she could see the rage on her face. “You crafted a novel out of a murder plan. The removal of the guts, the acid and all, those weren't symbolic, it was to screw forensics, although everyone bought it as literature. And Owen, poor stupid bastard, you made him plan his own death with you. You told him it would be a great way of maximizing his publicity and profits; you'd stage a public row, then he'd disappear, you'd circulate rumours about the book's contents, and when Owen let himself be found, you'd secure him an awesome deal. He delivered the book. You delayed a few days, then sent out copies of the fake book you wrote to Fisher, so the book got talked about, and then Waldegrave, Michael here... you faked the public row at the café, then followed Owen, who didn't realize he should fear you. He must've forgotten what he'd done to you for years, the blackmail that gave you a quarter of a century to be eaten by anger and wishes of revenge. Paying him so much just so he'd keep quiet about the parody... and you know what I think happened when Owen let you in? You got the narcissistic, naïve, sod to pose for a publicity photograph. Was he kneeling down? Did he get tied up like your Bombyx? He'd like posing in ropes, right? You could've easily moved behind and smashed his head with the metal doorstop. You knocked him out, tied him, sliced him open...”

Michael covered his mouth in horror, but Tassel spoke.

“You really should see a professional, Ms Harris.” She put a hand on her shoulder, and knowing what those hands had done, Ashlyn stepped back and her arm fell.

“You filled a holdall with Owen's guts and the real manuscript, put Owen's own cloak and hat and left, fooling the neighbours who saw you and thought you were him. Off you went, put a copy through Kathryn Kent's letter box, to incriminate someone more who got what you never got, sex, companionship, love maybe, and friendship, true one.”

“You and Owen would have been such good friends, wouldn't she, Michael?” Elizabeth feigned laughter, sounding manic. “People will laugh at you, Ms Harris. Poor traumatized veteran, completely fucked-up...”

“Have you got evidence?” Michael asked Ashlyn.

“Found a second electric typewriter, just like Owen's, wrapped up in a black burqa and hydrochloric-stained overalls and weighted with stones. A diver I happen to know pulled it out of the sea just days ago, it was lying beneath some notorious Cornish cliffs. Hell's Mouth, a place featured on Dorcus Pengelly's book cover. She showed it to you when you visited, didn't she? Did you walk there alone, saying you needed better reception for the phone?” suddently, Tassel began running away from them, towards the club, and Ashlyn snorted. “So, off to kill herself.” She pulled her phone.

“But you have to stop her!”

“My physiotherapist says I shouldn't run much just yet, with my knee having had recent issues and my shoulder damaged. We're off,” Ashlyn said finally into the phone. “If you're ready.”

  
  



	36. Re-establishing the order

**Chapter 36: Re-establishing the order.**

The tall, thin woman ran into the storm, slipping a little with the water, running up the dark street. A taxi with the 'for hire' light on appeared like magic, and she hailed it, ordering it to take her to Fulham Palace Road while sobbing heavily. The cab was quite old, and Tassel was visible in the rear-view mirror. The driver didn't speak a word, just looked beyond the fare to the street behind, where the shrinking figures of Ashlyn and Marcus could be seen, hurrying into a red sports car in the distance.

While Tassel cried into her hands, the taxi sped against the rainy storm.

“You're going the wrong way,” Tassel realized then, at last.

“There's a car accident blocking the road, because of the storm. I've got to change route,” lied Ali. Their eyes met briefly in the mirror. The agent looked over her shoulder, but the red Alfa Romeo was too far behind to see.

“You're going in the opposite direction.”

“Yeah, just two minutes, I'm about to turn around,” Ali heard the woman try the locked doors.

“Let me out, let me out!” Tassel shouted.

“But ma'am, in this weather, you'll get soaked! And you already sound like you've got a cold...”

They had thought, during the planning, that Tassel would be too distraught to notice where they were going for a little while longer. The cab was barely at Sloane Square. There was over a mile to go to New Scotland Yard. Ali saw the tiny red dot of the Alfa Romeo in the distance. Elizabeth had undone her seatbelt.

“STOP THIS CAR! LET ME OUT!”

“I can't stop here,” said Ali, calmly, even if she felt on the verge of an anxiety attack. But this was for Orlando and for Ashlyn, she reminded herself. “Please sit down...”

The screen slid open and Elizabeth's hand grabbed her hair, pulling and hurting her. Ali couldn't see with her own hair.

“Get off me!” Ali shouted, trying to push her away with a hand.

“Who are you?!” shouted Tassel, shaking her head, hitting it with the window. “I saw someone going through the bin... who are you?!”

“Let go!” Tassel's other hand grabbed her neck. Two hundred yards behind them, Ashlyn saw the taxi careering all over the road.

“Put your foot down! Something's wrong,” Ashlyn told Marcus. And despite her usual panic in cars, every time she didn't drive, she withstood it while Marcus hit the pedal of his wife's car.

The taxi took a corner into Sloane Square at great speed and disappeared from view. Meanwhile, Tassel had her whole upper body in the front of the taxi, screaming from her ripped throat, while Ali tried to fight her one handed, not seeing while she was going. Both of Tassel's hands were squeezing her throat. Ali tried to brake, but as the taxi leapt forwards she realized she had hit the accelerator. Unable to breathe, she took both hands off the wheel, praying she wouldn't kill anyone as she heard screams in the street. She grabbed the agent's grip, trying to get her off.

There was a huge jolt, an ear-splitting crunch of glass, of metal on concrete, and the searing pain of the seatbelt against her as the taxi crashed, and everything went black. The taxi had smashed its way into a plate of glass window. Marcus and Ashlyn, once their car was untidily stopped nearby, ran out of the car under the heavy rainfall, and the passers-by stopped and watched stunned as they ran, slipping and almost falling, towards the crash. Elizabeth Tassel flung herself from the back seat.

“Get her, Marcus!” Ashlyn shouted, knowing there wasn't much she could do with her shoulder, that was already hurting from the movement, and knowing Ali hadn't left the car. She was running to the driver's seat to get her. “GET HER, MARCUS!”

Marcus had played rugby in his youth. A short sprint and he had tacked Tassel down perfectly. They hit the street hard, and he pinned her down, trying to explain the altered women and men around she was a murderer.

Ashlyn was panicking, and she yanked the driver's door wide open.

“Alex!” Ashlyn, soaked, reached with her right arm to hold Ali, who was slumped sideways, still held by the belt. Her face was covered in blood, and she groaned. “Thank fuck, thank fuck!” the detective palmed her face softly, seeing a gash on her temple, and saw Ali's eyes struggle to focus on her. “Bloody good job, Alex. You okay? Help's coming, don't move...”

“She knew right away... didn't have time...” Ali mumbled.

“It's fine. You brought Scotland Yard to us.”

**. . .**

Slowly, Ashlyn walked through the dark corridors of the Emergency Room into a room with many beds, separated by curtains. It was dimly illuminated and with a grey-blue tone of light, and there the rain outside sounded like soft drizzle. Ashlyn was still mostly soaked and freezing, but the paramedics had given her a plastic bag to throw her jacket and coat, and what was underneath was a little less soaked, so Ashlyn was okay.

She had just been phoning Kyle who would contact Eric, all while the doctors examined and tested Ali, and now she walked calmly to the bed where her formed assistant lied. She moved the curtains away in order to get behind them and restored their position one-handedly behind her. Ali's bed was only illuminated by a light bar on the wall, positioned so it illuminated the ceiling, not straight down on Ali. The brunette was in a hospital gown under the bed sheets, and as Ashlyn sat on a chair by her bed and put her hand over Ali's, that was on her belly over the sheets, her tiger brown eyes opened under a heavy gauze, looking at her. She was pale and looked a bit out of things still, but the doctors assured it was just a mild concussion and attempted strangulation, the bruise on her neck being a statement of it. She'd be more than fine, and home the next day, most likely.

“How are you feeling, Alex?” Ashlyn asked softly, rubbing circles with her thumb on the back of her hand.

“I should be asking you that,” Ali croaked, “I know PTSD,” she murmured, “Chris and the car accident... you must've freaked out when you saw Marcus' Dad's taxi...”

The detective could not believe her ears. Even under the circumstances, Ali put her first.

“Don't worry about me,” Ashlyn leaned forward on impulse, and planted a solid kiss on her cheek, “I'd be nothing without you. I'm so fucking glad you'll be fine. The doctor said so.”

“Tassel?”

“Police got the dog poo you recovered from her dog, and forensics will find Owen's remains there,” Ashlyn said. “They've arrested Tassel. Abby's feeling better, she phoned her boss, convinced him to hear us out. Tassel won't see the light of day again. Leonora will come home tomorrow most likely. Or the next, perhaps. And Eric and Kyle are coming, I told them not to worry, that you'd be home tomorrow, so they shouldn't bother you too much with panic.”

Ali blinked slowly and stared at her.

“Will I see you again?” the younger woman asked then, her voice sounding so sad suddenly. Ashlyn looked at her surprised.

“Sure. If you feel up to it, you should come with me to pick-up Leonora from prison, and if you don't... I'll tell Orlando you felt unwell but will go visit her soon, and you and I can meet for lunch one of these days, when you're feeling better. What do you say?”

“I'd like that,” Ali murmured weakly. “I miss you.”

“But I'm right here.” The Northerner smiled weakly and closed her eyes.

“You don't understand, but it's okay,” she mumbled then, and fell asleep.

Ali was discharged seventeen hours later into Eric's care, and about at the same time, Leonora was let go from prison. That meant Ali couldn't come, but Ashlyn and Whitney went together, picked her up, and witnessed the emotional reunion of mother and daughter. Ashlyn was then hugged tightly and thanked profusely by both mother and daughter.

“I'll pay you proper,” said Leonora, smiling, “we should be well off now. Police's gonna compensate me with money, and we'll get Owen's real book going, in his honour. And with insurance, we'll be okay.”

“I hope so,” Ashlyn grinned at them.

“Where's Ali?” Orlando asked, gripping her mother's hand with both hands.

“Ali got injured catching your Daddy's killer, and she's not feeling okay to come,” Ashlyn explained, “but she told me to give you a big hug from her, and promised to come as soon as she felt better.”

Orlando searched in her orang-utan and pulled out of it a drawing of a smiling family. Orlando, her parents, and right there, undoubtedly, Ali. It said 'To my friend Ali, love from Dodo'.

“Give her our love,” said Orlando, and Ashlyn nodded, saving the drawing in her inner jacket pocket.

“Thank you, Orlando. You're a truly special person, you know? For all the best reasons.”

Over the next few days, more details of the case came out. The Doberman Tassel had owned had his bowels full of human guts that she'd been defrosting bit by bit. The rest was in the freezer and the poo Ali had retrieved. Tassel had sneaked into Quine's study, planting two of her own used typewriter ribbons behind her desk, and DNA testing had determined Owen never touched them. Now it was an open and shut case. Tassel bought the duplicate typewriter two years previously, ordered the burqa and ropes on Quine's card, got them sent to the house while she was there supervising the workmen's activities. Loads of opportunity to get at his Visa over the years. She grabbed his wallet off his coat while he was asleep, pissed, when she drove him home from parties.

Tassel knew him well enough to know he never checked his bills, and she had made a copy of Talgarth Road's house's key, that she had visited enough to know about the acid. Now she was on suicide watch. She had kept the real book in the freezer with the guts, bloodstained, but readable. It was the book Quine really wrote. She was an agent, after all, couldn't bear to destroy a book. Roper Chard were going to publish it, and Fancourt would write the introduction. It was thought to be a future best seller, so his family will be rolling in money.

Three days after Tassel's arrest, Ashlyn signed a contract to rent the attic above her office. Clients were flowing in, and now she could afford a decent place to live, finally, after two months homeless. It wouldn't be as nice as Whitney and Nick's, but it'd be hers, and she'd make it really nice. Deciding she needed a small holiday, she took the rest of the week off, although she still answered calls and took clients in and organized some interviews with them, and got her attic painted with her friends' help. It was a small place to live; one bedroom, one bathroom, a small sitting-dinning room, and a tiny kitchen, but it had a stylish ceiling a little inclined in parts, with wooden beams that gave it a rustic vibe, and some nice windows with a bench in one of them, so it was cosy. Ashlyn got it all in light grey colours, painting the skirting boards white, to get as much natural light in as possible, and cleaned a window the inclined ceiling had just over her new bed, and that didn't look like it had been cleaned in years. Ashlyn loved the idea of falling asleep looking at the stars, and it was on a side of the roof that faced west, so when it rose, it wouldn't blind her.

Getting furniture from second-hand places and her friends, Ashlyn had her attic ready within three days, modestly furnished, just the essentials, and some decoration, minimalistic, clean, neat, like she liked it. So when Ali felt better, which was about the same time she finished it, Ashlyn invited Ali over. She was going to do a party to celebrate, but under the circumstances, she preferred to actually fix her relationship with her friend.

  
  



	37. Friendship

**Chapter 37: Friendship.**

The perks of being the granddaughter of a wonderful cook was that Ashlyn cooked very nicely. She organized lunch with Ali on a day Eric would be busy with work until six in the afternoon, giving them more than enough time for a girls' day without pressure, and to improve things, it was a day with very little rain. The detective had, the day before, spoken long to her therapist about Lisbeth, to the point that her future marriage stung less and her thoughts were clearer, and now was cooking some nice pasta she had made from scratch, doing the filling and all, getting the entire attic to smell wonderfully. She did it all one-handed, but she did it nevertheless. Her left shoulder was no longer bandaged, but as she wore a short-sleeved t-shirt, the heating keeping the flat at a nice temperature, her left arm hung from its cast, tattoos exposed, and soft Indie music, with James Bay or Lewis Capaldi, could be heard in the flat.

Barefoot, she opened the door when she heard Ali ringing the doorbell, and smiled warmly at her, moving away to let her in.

“Oh, this is very nice,” Ali said in awe looking around.

“I've tried to make a home of it,” Ashlyn said, taking her coat and hanging it by the door. Ali looked much better. Her hair was loose, half-covering the pink scar on her head, and the bruises on her neck weren't so obvious anymore. “How are you feeling?” She added, as Ali looked at a framed photograph of Ashlyn and her brother as children, that was on a shelf of a very full bookshelf.

“Much better,” Ali replied, looking around at the small round table with a couple chairs, right by one of the windows, where there was a small plant, and then her eyes went to the small second-hand sofa in front of a small coffee table where Ashlyn's laptop was. There was no TV.

“I'll be in the kitchen, just finishing up,” Ashlyn said, remembering the food. Soon, though, she came back with two plates she set on the table, steaming, and after a few trips, she had put on glasses, beer, water, napkins and cutlery, so they sat around. “How's Eric?”

“He's getting his head around things,” Ali smiled. “How's your shoulder?”

“It's been worse. I've got something for you,” Ashlyn went to her bedroom for one moment, and came out with a plastic envelope with Orlando's drawing inside, that she handed over to Ali, “Orlando said to give you her love.”

“She's the sweetest human being,” Ali grinned, her eyes getting tearful, and she pulled it next to her plate, where she could admire it. “This looks and smells really well Harris, didn't take you for a chef.”

“The little rolls under my tee would disagree,” Ashlyn joked, making her snort a laugh. “Water? I don't imagine you want any alcohol with a concussion?”

“You're right, thanks,” they started eating in comfortable silence.

“So...” Ashlyn said at last. “Did you call Human Resources already? Tell them you changed your mind, you accept that job? Twice what I pay you, it's nice.”

Ali looked at her with eyes wide of surprise.

“How did you...?” Ashlyn smiled warmly.

“Ali, they called me at the hospital, back in September. Don't you know bosses always have to check where the employee comes from? And I was your last boss.”

“I... forgot...” she seemed mortified.

“I submitted a recommendation letter,” the detective continued, “very good one, I'd say. And a couple days later, when I called to check how it went, they told me you had refused the job. You never told me, so I thought you didn't think it was important, but now... you're unemployed, you're getting married. Take it, okay? It'll be good for you. I'll send another letter.”

Ali looked at her, amazed. So that's how she got the job. She had been thinking what had convinced the company, with her small curriculum full of temporary jobs, dropping out of university. Ashlyn had interceded and convinced them she was one hell of an employee, even when it would mean losing her.

“Why would you help some snobs steal an employee from you?” Ali asked, knowing Ashlyn's dislike for snobbish businesspeople.

“Because,” said Ashlyn, “I knew your worth. I knew even then what I know now; that you're too much of a valuable employee who should be earning at least twice what you earn. If I couldn't give you the best, I wanted you to be with someone who could. It's what you deserve.”

While the short-haired woman kept eating, Ali stared at her in disbelief. She really looked at her. Her hair had grown a little, brushing her shoulders now, showing dark roots. She wore a little bit of foundation, a bit of lip balm, tiny earrings, and she could make out bags under her eyes. She wore her watch and her brother's bracelet as usual, and even though she claimed to have gained weight, Ali thought she was thinner. It had been a really stressful, against the clock case.

_I'm waitin' up, savin' all my precious time_

_Losin' light, I'm missin' my same old us_

_Before we learned our truth too late_

_Resigned to fate, fadin' away_

_So tell me, can you turn around?_

_I need someone to tear me down_

The Scottish Lewis Capaldi sang in such low volume, Ali could barely hear his voice and the piano, but she understood his lyrics.

_Hold me while you wait_

_I wish that I was good enough_

_If only I could wake you up_

_My love, my love, my love, my love_

_Won't you stay a while?_

“Ali?” Ashlyn looked up at her, the fork suspended half-way to her mouth. “Everything OK? Does it taste awful?” Ali grinned and shook her head.

“It's perfect,” Ali made a point to munch a little further. “I was just thinking how incredible of a person you are. Was your Mum half as nice? Sorry,” she added, as Ashlyn, caught by surprise, choked on her beer.

“It's fine,” Ashlyn recovered her breath. “Uhm... yeah. Mum was... she used to light up the room, before Chris died. No matter how bad the day was, she'd found a way to laugh at despair and she had the prettiest smile, and... she was always doing whatever for whoever needed it. The little she had, she gave it to those who had less. Squatters, homeless... she always said that a good Christian had to love the unloved, give hope to the hopeless, embrace the lonely, enrich the poor, help the helpless. Then she got depression and... the world didn't give her quite the same feedback. Friends disappeared, family... never seemed to be enough. So she died, but she was dead inside long before.”

“Sorry,” Ali chastised herself. “I shouldn't have...”

“It's okay,” Ashlyn half smiled about her. “I guess it's good I can talk about her. For a long time, I couldn't. It may sound horrible but... it's actually a relief she's dead. With her and Christopher gone, and Curtis in prison... I got to start over, forget the past as if it never existed, put it in a box and close it proper, you know? If I still had to take care of her... I'd never be able to move on as properly.”

“It's normal,” Ali half shrugged, understanding. “She must've felt so guilty, your Mum. Her son died in her face, and there was nothing she could do about it. It's a mother's instinct to protect her children.” Ashlyn nodded in agreement.

“He was the right eye. My parents wanted a child so badly, but she wouldn't get pregnant, and then Christopher came, like an angel... he was so wanted. So loved, even by Curtis, until he became a drunk addict with anger issues and then... his death worsened things. I was never enough for Curtis and Mum. The remaining children are barely enough when you lose one... even more when the one who died was... well, he had more time with them to charm them. Sometimes Curtis openly told me he wished I had been the one to die that day, not Christopher. I'd hear him at night, crying to God, begging he'd take me instead and return Chris.”

“No!”

“Yeah,” Ashlyn smiled a little.

“That's terrible...”

“Well, you know what I've learned in the past decade? I do better when I'm not judging them. I suffer because I keep thinking how could they, trying to understand... but I had to accept I couldn't understand. I'm thirty, childless... I have no idea what their lives were like. And I want to think they did the best with what they had, and that they became dark people because life fucked them up proper. I could forgive Mum, and some day... I may call Curtis Dad again. First step to forgiving him, I suppose. But living with anger only fucks me over. Look what those negative feelings did to Tassel.”

“Touché,” Ali nodded, her plate finished. “So you're Christian?”

“Oh, God, no,” Ashlyn chuckled. “I'm a respectful Atheist. Spiritual, yes... but don't believe in Gods. My entire family does, but we respect each others beliefs, I even accompany them to Church sometimes. But to me, God failed me the day he took Mum. I prayed every day for my entire University experience that she'd be fine, and then she died. And one doesn't just forget finding your mother... like I found mine. So no God for me.”

“Well you're a detective. They just have to give you some solid evidence in a nice plastic bag,” Ali joked, making her laugh.

Ashlyn's laughter died slowly and she looked up at Ali, suddenly serious.

“Alex... what do I have to do to convince you not to quit?”

“I don't want to quit Ash, I've got to. I said some rough bullshit and—,”

“And?” Ashlyn interrupted. “And friends say rough bullshit. I forgive you, okay? And you were right, I was giving advice on things I know nothing of.”

“You were just worried about my relationship with my fiancé. And you had a reason to be. You were right. Just because we had discussed things and I told you they were fixed... they weren't. I thought they were, but he proved me wrong.”

The detective frowned and dragged her chair closer to her.

“What's happening between you and Eric?” Ashlyn asked directly.

“You,” Ali half smiled sadly. “Look, thing is, Eric proposed to a different Ali. What happened in Uni, it really damaged me for years and you were right, okay? I became used to bowing my head and doing whatever I was told to do, save for my one moment of initiative going to Frankfurt, because my family was worried sick, Eric was anxious... I just wanted to please them, see them happy again. I was a different Ali once, one closer to the one I'm becoming, one who was daring, adventurous, who wanted to be a cop, who was fearless... but Eric never knew that Ali. He knew the traumatized Ali, the hurt Ali... and he stayed with her. He loved her, he held her, and he stayed when a lot of people didn't. And so I fell I love with him. To tell you the truth, early in our relationship I was going to break up because the Ali I was had little in common with him but... after what happened, we became closer and... I fell for him. He doesn't know I almost broke things up.”

“Okay, so what happens now?”

“Now... to be sincere, meeting you, getting this job... it's thrown my life upside down,” Ashlyn felt a knot in her throat. Was this why she really wanted to go? “I don't bow my head so much. I'm not the first to back down in an argument and apologize, I'm not as non-confrontational, I'm a little bit of the fearless I once was, I walk around the street alone at night with far more confidence and bravery than I've felt in years, you know? I like who this job is making me be, because it feels more natural for me, because I _was_ like this. For eighteen years, this _was_ me, and I loved it. I uh... my Mum, she's a school teacher but she has a farm-like house, she's got all these horses... and I thrived there. I'd mount my Clydesdale, which a fucking huge horse, all on my own from a very young age and we'd go alone up the hills and all... fearless. I won some prizes and all with Angus. But once I dropped Oxford it was all fear, all the fear I've never felt before, it was paralysing and... that's what Eric was used to. To be my guide, tell me what to do, push me forward, pull me to come here, tell me which jobs to get. It sounds pathetic, I know—,”

“It's not pathetic,” Ashlyn argued right away. “You were struggling. I get that.”

“Yeah but you took your traumas and got into the Navy and became a warrior. I became a shell of who I was.”

“So? Ali, I grew up with trauma. For me, it was a matter of survival my entire life, it was all I knew, which made things easier. If all you know is the desert, it'll never be a problem. But if you go into the desert one day from years in Oslo, then you'll probably sink. I'm not judging here. How long has it been, since whatever happened?”

“Six years, four months,” Ali answered.

“That's time enough to start trying to face fears a little, don't you think? If you liked who you were, if you miss that person, if this job brings any of that back... I'd be happy to have you. Thrilled, in fact. I can promise tons of danger and apparently, murderers, if we become famous for those and bring that clientèle.”

Ali smiled small at her.

“I know you warned this job is hard on relationships, but it really is important for me to keep mine, you know? I need Eric with me, I love him. He's my home,” said the brunette. “And I can't blame him if ever since I got this job he's upset constantly because I get home late, work Saturdays, don't even earn much for all I work, and meanwhile we're trying to organize a wedding... he misses me. It's not that I want less hours,” she added, stopping Ashlyn from speaking, “that's the problem, that I love working here all I work for as many hours as it takes and whichever salary. You need that of me, I want to give that, but I also want to give him what he wants. It's like, I want nothing more than being two places at once. But then again, I know how important this job is, and I know if I can't be the ideal assistant... then you need to find someone else. Perhaps another veteran, someone whose family is used to them doing this job and it won't be a problem. Because I can't ask Eric to get used to this in two months. I need to give him time, and you need someone who's hundred percent here, and not getting home daily to reproaches and giving you eighty percent, and fights and shit.”

The detective sat thoughtful and then slowly looked up at her.

“Would it help Eric... let you go a little... if I met him? Maybe... maybe I could talk to him, make him see he doesn't need to be anxious all the time, or worried, make him see I can take care of you, and show him the office, show him it's safe and most of the time we're just there, show him how important our job is, so he understands. Maybe then he won't make such a fuss about you working here? And... I could give you a well-deserved pay rise, the agency is doing a lot better, hell, I bought myself a place, you deserve some prize too.”

Ali's face illuminated and she beamed at her.

“Would you do that for me? Talk to him?” she asked in disbelief. Ashlyn pressed her lips into a small smile.

“What wouldn't I do for you, uh?” Ashlyn replied. “You just had to ask!” Ali squealed and jumped to her arms, hugging her tightly. Ashlyn grinned and hugged her back, internally hoping she wasn't making a huge mistake.

  
  



	38. Truce

**Chapter 38: Truce.**

It took several weeks, as the agency filled with work at an incredible speed and Eric took extra hours at work as he fought for a promotion, for schedules to allow a dinner at Eric's favourite pub, which didn't happen until the night of Wednesday, December 22nd, the last day of work before the holidays. He would pick them up at the office, that was closer, because Ali wanted to show him the office, as Ashlyn had suggested, and they'd stroll in the snow for a few minutes until they arrived at the warm pub, with a booked table thanks to Ali's hard work.

It was safe to say both women were nervous. Ali, because it was really important for this to go not just well, but perfectly, and Ashlyn, because she knew she had to manage to get Eric to be her friend, and she had a feeling, for all she had heard about him, and she was going to hate him, and she wasn't good at not being transparent when it came to Ali. She'd know, and she'd leave. So when the intercom at the office rang in the evening as Ashlyn and Ali were busy quickly organizing things for several weeks of break, storing folders away and cleaning-up a little, Ashlyn actually felt her heart jump.

“Hello,” Ali sang with a huge smile as she attended the intercom, “come up sweetie, last floor.” She grinned at Ashlyn and palmed her hands. “Good thing you're the most likeable person I know. Although I forgot to warn you, Eric is not into football. Cricket guy.”

_Cricket?! What? That wasn't even a real sport._

“Great,” Ashlyn managed a smile.

With her arm no longer in a cast, although still hurting a little now that it was freezing cold and snowing, Ashlyn put on her scarf and long, heavy coat, and opened the office door. Eric came in the lift, and soon, they were face to face. Eric was about a centimetre shorter than Ashlyn, and still taller than Ali. He had the most symmetrical face Ashlyn had ever seen in her life, short brown hair, light blue eyes, and stubbly cheeks. His face was squared and his chin a little pointed, his neck wide, short and stubbly, and he had some snow over his squared, wide shoulders. He was dressed in a suit and tie, with his coat over it, a scarf, and held an umbrella as he smiled in a way that seemed a little forced to Ashlyn, who couldn't blame him.

“Hi,” Ashlyn smiled, offering a hand, “Ashlyn, so nice to finally meet you! Ali speaks wonders of you, non-stop.” She exaggerated.

“Hi uhm,” Eric shook her hand a bit too forcefully, “yeah, it's great to be here. Hi, sweetie.” The couple embraced and kissed, and Ali excitedly took his hand and pulled him into the office, showing him around with a huge smile.

The dodo Orlando had gifted Ali was, along with the other drawing Orlando had given her, framed on her desk, and Ashlyn was grateful the office was in one of its best days, clean, smelling of the flowers Ali had bought the day before and that were on the window by her desk, and with a recent painting they had done the week before, as the paint had started to come off in some areas. It was also cosy warm thanks to a portable heater Ashlyn had plugged in that morning.

She observed as Ali showed Eric her working space, Ashlyn's office, and he made admiring comments and grinned sincerely at her, putting an arm around her shoulders as she beamed at him.

 _Lucky bastard_ , thought Ashlyn.

Once in the pub, they sat around their table and Ashlyn scratched her brain to try and make conversation with the man. _I'm gay for a fucking reason_ , she kept telling herself.

“So, Eric, Ali told me you're into cricket. To tell you the truth I know almost nothing of it, why don't you tell me about it?”

“Well, basically it's bat and ball, eleven players, grass field, I actually belong to the London Cricket Club...”

As he chatted away, Ali feed him lines carefully designed to brag about a quality of his, and she grinned proudly at her man while he spoke of his latest victories, while Ashlyn observed without listening too much, happy with seeing Ali smile. Ashlyn intervened every now and then to feign curiosity about this or that, sometimes even with real curiosity.

“I guess you're into football then? Ali said you like the Arsenal,” Eric said at last, stopping the cricket chatter once they were on second rounds of drinks and dinner was on the table, “I heard your Dad's kinda famous goalkeeper.”

“Uhm, I just really like the Arsenal, both men and women, don't care. Although I've got to say the women's team is giving me more will to live than the men's lately, if I'm honest,” Ashlyn joked with a half smile, but he didn't look amused. “So, Ali did horses, do you also ride?”

“No,” Eric shrugged, “I don't like smelling of horses all day...” he smiled at Ali, who smiled back. “And Ali stopped it as well, we do more interesting things these days.”

“Oh, such as...?” Ashlyn inquired, hoping for something of interest.

“Strolling, Masham is a beautiful place for strolls. And going to the cinema, cricket games, friends' outings...” Ashlyn made a conscious effort not to show her disappointment. She imagined a hundred things Ali would rather do like, for example, catching murderers driving a taxi like GTA. “So, seeing anyone these days?” Eric asked then.

“Actually yes,” and Ashlyn almost breathed in relief at having one easy thing to talk about, “been dating a violinist, she works for BBC Radio, Elin Toft, don't know if you might've heard her... she was working tonight.”

“Oh, I don't listen to the radio really. Prefer the telly,” Eric smiled. “Violinist, uh? Music's not really my thing. Oh, I just remembered! Ali darling, didn't you say Ashlyn was a decorated Navy? We could talk about _that_.” Realization came like a jar of cold water. Eric wasn't trying to know her, he was trying for her to show something bad about herself. Like, ego, talking too much about herself... he feed her topics about herself _expecting_ her to brag and bore everyone. Unluckily for him, she wasn't a bragger and she didn't really like none of those topics she was fed, not as much as to talk with him for hours about them. Maybe with Ali.

“I don't really fancy talking about the Navy, being honest,” said Ashlyn, her voice gentle. She sipped from her beer, “not my favourite memories... hey, isn't you mother from London? Tell me, you like it here, right? How work, what's that promotion Ali says you're looking forward about?”

Ashlyn had noticed it was easy to keep him talking about himself, it filled the conversation. They had nothing in common, save for the fact that they both sailed, him in his father's yacht, and Ashlyn not much anymore. Ali diverted the conversation to Christmas plans, looking for them to know each other a little. Ashlyn was going to St. Mawes in Cornwall, to visit her extended family, and Ali and Eric were going back to Masham, where wedding planning was in full going. Eric stopped to listen to Ali and always had his hand touching her somehow, but he interrupted her frequently for 'corrections' or to divert things to himself. He had much more ego than Ali, but was far less interesting. He hardly asked Ashlyn anything, and when he did, he showed very little interest in whatever she had to say. His grandfather was a RAF, which apparently was more interesting than the Navy.

“So how did you propose? That's one biggie ring, must've been romantic,” Ashlyn commented at last when she had almost finished eating.

“The ring? I just asked the lady at the jewels to give me whichever was the prettiest,” Eric grinned, kissing Ali's cheek. “This one always liked diamonds, but I don't think the diamond ones at the jewels were as pretty. Besides, blue goes with her hair, don't you think?”

“Never thought of it,” Ashlyn smiled at Ali, who looked a bit shy.

“I had made reservations at this Italian, I was hysterical in nerves, and then a couple started fighting next to us, so they ruined the atmosphere. But I was determined to get it done that night, I couldn't wait one day more... so when we passed by the Eros statue at Piccadilly, I just went on one knee, and she said yes. Hardly had to speak two words.”

“Hey I let you say three! Be my forever,” Ali grinned, pecking his lips. “Irresistible.”

And Ashlyn held vomit back. They exited the pub together an hour and a half later, as the snow hit a bit more strongly.

“We'll walk you back,” Ali proposed, smiling warmly at Ashlyn, content.

“Oh, there's no need, you guys have a long trip tomorrow,” Ashlyn stopped her. “Go home, rest proper, see you on January 3rd. Give your family my love.”

“But it's dark and...”

“You heard her, Alex,” said Eric, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Let's go, we're gonna lose the metro.” Ali looked from one to another, and Ashlyn smiled confidently.

“All right,” Ali hugged her friend. “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Try to have some fun with your family.”

“You too, Merry Christmas. We'll be in touch, safe trip!”

“You too, and give Whit and Nick hugs from me!”

As the detective walked back towards Denmark Street, she felt relief wash over her at being away from Eric. In the meantime, Ali walked with her future husband into the tube, feeling like the night had gone great, and asking the handsome man next to her what he had thought of the detective.

“She was OK,” he said. “Lil interrogator, don't you think?”

**. . .**

The next morning, Nick and Whitney drove Ashlyn the over five hours trip to St. Mawes. They stopped for lunch, but by two in the afternoon, Ashlyn was being dropped off at her grandparents' house. Her grandparents were now in their nineties, but you wouldn't tell from looking at them. They lived in a nice house in one of St. Mawes' tallest areas, giving them some of the best views, and squeezed Ashlyn with surreal strength. Nick and Whitney were off to Whitney's parents', so they'd met later for dinner.

After eating homemade biscuits and drinking hot chocolate with her grandparents, while discussing life in London, Beth breakup, Ali's friendship, work, and all the gossip she had missed in Cornwall, Nana Eunice took Ashlyn into her bedroom, the only steady one Ashlyn had kept through her life. It was a theme bedroom. Her curtains, bed header, and duvet over a double bed were of ships and boats over a navy blue background, there was a warm soft rug that occupied most of the room, the views were of the ocean below, at the end of hundreds of houses downhill, and there were two bedside tables, one in each side, both with small identical lamps, a framed photograph of some 1982 celebration with Ashlyn's mother holding her while smiling next to Eunice, who held Christopher, and then Michael on the other side.

The Harrises had repudiated Curtis, and Ashlyn had heard her grandparents say more than once that their son was dead, in the years following rescuing their granddaughter at the hospital where Curtis was being treated for the stabbing wounds she had caused him and Tammye for the incredible injuries he had done her. Ashlyn wouldn't forget hugging them there, as they took her from social services, crying and wearing a t-shirt covered in blood. Next, every photograph of Curtis had mysteriously vanished.

“Is it all to your taste, love?” Eunice asked Ashlyn as she sat on the bed while the younger woman examined her sailing boat miniature on her bookshelf. She had put it together herself at age six, and her initials, A.M.H., had been engraved by her grandfather underneath. “I try not to touch anything when I clean...”

“Nana, you're too good for me,” Ashlyn grinned at her, “you know I don't mind if you touch around. It's not like you're going to find used condoms or erotic magazines.” She joked, and Eunice chuckled.

“Well, you know I like you have your own unaltered space every time.”

“I know, thank you Nana. I appreciate it.”

“So how's this girlfriend of yours?” Nana asked her then, with a tone of innocence.

“It's okay,” Ashlyn opened her suitcase, starting to put things away, “Elin's a wonderful woman.”

“And Beth's out of the picture, for real?”

“Yeah. If she wants to be a duchess, then good for her,” Ashlyn said simply, putting the clothes away one by one. “I just want to be Ashlyn.”

“Wise girl,” Nana smiled, standing up and tiptoeing to kiss her cheek. “I'm going to help your grandpa, he's cooking some cake for tonight.”

Ashlyn managed a small smile and nodded, seeing her go. She let a long breath out and opened the windows wide so the salty smell invaded her room. She needed this.

  
  



	39. Blizzard

**Chapter 39: Blizzard.**

On Christmas Day, Ashlyn didn't care to get out of bed, and her grandparents knew better than to try to convince her. She slept until very late, and when the detective finally got up, she showered calmly and got into her newest suit, a gift her grandparents had sent her for her birthday. Once she was fully ready, she went back into her bedroom to grab her mobile and wallet. Then, she noticed a text from Lisbeth.

' **I could come back, if you only asked nicely. No need to mourn more people.** ' the text said, accompanied by a photograph of Lisbeth's left hand with a huge emerald ring.

With a malicious smirk, Ashlyn sent her a reply.

' **Ever since you're gone, the agency is bursting with clients, my name is known as London's best detective, and I've earned a diamond of a friendship. Accept this, Beth; my life is thriving for real since you're gone, and I couldn't ask more. But thank you for 11 years in which you made me realize I deserve so much better.** '

Deciding it was time, Ashlyn blocked and deleted her contact. No more messages and missing calls from the socialité, never again. She was done. For real.

Leaving her bedroom, Ashlyn found the house empty, and a note her Nana had left her on the fridge, knowing her so well to know it'd be one of her first places to go to. The note Nana had scribbled indicated Christmas celebrations were being held at her Uncle James and Aunt Debbie's house. Even though they were Habovick, which meant Ashlyn's mother's side, they had always welcomed the Harrises into their home for the festivities, specially since Ashlyn's only paternal aunt only had a couple kids, both of them grown adults, but still childless, one of them married, so they weren't a lot of people. Harrises and Habovicks were just used to being together, living in the same town, knowing each other for decades. When the Habovick grandparents had died, the Harrises had shown-up in support, and when Christopher first and Tammye afterwards died, they just grew closer together, holding no resentment towards the family that had raised Curtis.

But, as Ashlyn made a bouquet of flowers from the garden and got into her grandmother's car, that she could always use, to drive to the cemetery, she reflected that Curtis hadn't always been a dickhead. In his youth, he had been promising. First of the class several years, one of the big stars in Cornish football since he could walk enough to kick a ball away from the goal, wonderful friend, for what those who had known him said. He had been very loved by many, and his story with Tammye had been very romantic at first. It had taken years, and particularly retiring as a player and becoming a coach, for drugs and alcohol to kick in, unravelling growing violence against his wife and children, breaking family ties, and putting so many people against him that by the time he finally went to prison, he had no one interested in visiting him there.

Christopher and Tammye's graves appeared like magic under a Cornish oak and between bushes of rhododendrons. Ashlyn left the flowers she had acquired there, where other mountains of bouquets already rested.

“Hi,” Ashlyn whispered, squatting in front of them, “I missed you. So... I made it. I've earned quite the awesome reputation as a detective in London. It's good is there, not here, so this can always be my calm place. And you'll be happy to know Lisbeth is out of my life. You were right, Mum, I deserve better. Took me eleven years to see, but hey...” the detective observed as a spider crawled over Christopher's grave. She hated spiders, but she had learned not to mess too much with Cornish spiders when they were in their wild habitat. They could be more savage than in her territory. She'd just clean the nets in another occasion. “I should probably say all the merit is not mine. There's a girl, Alexandra Krieger... actually a shark,” Ashlyn snorted a laugh. “She just goes in and gets things done, you know? I'm lucky she's in my team. Catching bad guys like a pro, she is. And she's a civilian, you know? Wonderful. I call her Ali, she likes that. Anyway...” her hazel eyes travelled sadly over the names on the stone. “I miss you guys. I wish we could actually talk. I'm gonna go now, okay? I'll visit again, before I return to London. I love you Chris, love you Mum.”

The Roseland Peninsula had a lighthouse that stood tall on top of the Atlantic cliffs. In her childhood, her parents had often taken her and her brother around there, to visit the lighthouse and then sit on benches nearby to enjoy the views and eat some sandwiches. This time, Ashlyn stood alone, the smell of the ocean inundating her lungs and nostrils, the freezing wind hitting her with force, passing through her suit as if she was naked. She felt her phone buzz then in her pocket, and she took it to see it was an incoming video-call from Ali.

“Hello,” Ali grinned big at her, and Ashlyn lost her sense of speech for a moment. She looked gorgeous, her make-up light and her hair so long and wavy, and Ashlyn could make-out quite a suggestive neckline of her dress.

“Hi, you look great,” Ashlyn said, giving her a dimpled smile. She could see something like a park behind Ali.

“You too! Where are you? Sounds windy,” the detective moved the phone so she could see the views, and chuckled at Ali's whistle of admiration. “GORG! That's St. Mawes? I expected... houses.”

“Funny, are we?” Ashlyn chuckled at her, and Ali gave her a gin. “Roseland Peninsula. I was having a walk. Where are you?”

“Strolling to try and digest a far too great lunch,” Ali explained. “I swear it filled my stomach just from looking at it.” Ashlyn snorted a laugh. “How's your day going?”

“Well, you know,” Ashlyn shrugged, “not very Christmassy as usual. Went to the cemetery, had some biscuits for breakfast... avoiding the celebrations for now.”

“I see. Are you sad?”

“A little. Just trying to think of the last time I saw my brother before the accident.”

“When was that?”

“I don't remember,” Ashlyn gave her a grim smile. “I can't clearly remember him anymore. If it wasn't for photographs, I wouldn't know the colour of his eyes anymore,” Ali frowned small. “But I'm not going to ruin your Christmas. How are the horses? Doing anything fun today?”

“Ash,” Ali moved her phone to show her she was surrounding by snow and more snow. She was wearing a long coat over her dress and as she looked at Ashlyn on the screen again, she smiled small, “I think best I'm going to do is snuggle by the chimney all day. The horses are cosy, hopefully.”

“I forgot Masham is in the north,” Ashlyn chuckled. “Did you open your presents yet?”

“This morning, early when Kyle stole me from my fiancé,” Ali rolled eyes but smirked. “Jumper, investigation book, some nice shoes, a necklace... stuff. You?”

“Didn't even think to check the tree this morning, to be honest,” Ashlyn said. They had a little tree at the office too, on a bookshelf. “I was too hungry!”

“Forgot you eat like the giants,” Ali laughed. “But now seriously, Ash... you don't ruin my Christmas. I called precisely because I wanted to check on you, if I wanted to avoid sad things at all costs, I wouldn't have read the newspaper.”

“Well, uhm...” Ashlyn nodded. “Okay. Beth texted again, this time I blocked her number and deleted her contact. She didn't say anything particularly awful,” she added quickly, as she saw Ali was about to ask, “but I am done with her. I want her out. And then I went to the cemetery, and I told my family about you,” she continued with a chuckle. Ali looked surprised.

“Did you? I hope you only told them the good stuff.” Ali winked.

“Oh, as if you've got anything bad!”

They talked long and in the end, Ashlyn was crying tears of laughter, cleaning them off with a finger as Ali crackled more jokes, introducing her to the family dog, Apollo, a gigantic beast that was hanging out with her and making faces with the dog for her delight.

“Hey Ash,” Ali said before they ended the call. “Go back to your family.”

“I don't know, Ash...”

“It's Christmas, a day to celebrate family. Specially when yours has gotten smaller. Let them love you, be present for them... you don't know how long they'll be there.”

Ashlyn locked eyes with her and then nodded.

“I will. Thank you, Ali. Have fun.”

“You too. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

As promised, Ashlyn got back in the car and drove to her uncle and aunt's house. As she rang the doorbell, she heard a voice on the other side of the door.

“Who is it?” a cute little girl's voice made her smile.

“Aunty Ashlyn, will you open the door for me, Raya?” the door opened and a little girl, no bigger than three years old, stood grinning at her. Ashlyn grinned back and took her up in her arms. “There you are, beautiful!” the little girl squealed.

“Aunty!”

Hours later, as she fell asleep on the sofa with her niece snuggled to her side, her nephew Jenson over her legs, and her nephew Porter under an arm, a smile on her face and a film on the TV, while a blizzard unravelled outside, she knew Ali had made her make the right decision coming back to her family.

  
  



	40. 2011

**Chapter 40: 2011.**

Six months passed in the blink of an eye and the heat of June interrupted the snow and rain for the Londoners. Nine months after she was first hired by Ashlyn, Ali felt happy in the agency, and was taking more and more detective duties on her shoulders. She had done several courses more, and the agency was full of cases keeping them all over the place day and night, but even though they didn't see each other as much, Ashlyn and Ali had begun a traditional Friday lunch at the pub with their friends in London. Professionally, Ali, now nearing her twenty-sixth birthday, had been engaged for almost a year, and her wedding had a date in the summer, an invitation had been handed to her boss and best friend in London, and she was thriving professionally. However, her relationship wasn't thriving so much.

Her few married friends had often consoled her that the engagement year was very stressful and it was normal for couples to fight a lot and argue. Still, Ali often found herself wondering if she and Eric would be arguing less if a golden band was sitting already beneath the sapphire engagement ring that had become a little loose on her finger.

On Monday morning, Ali made her way through the crowds of Tottenham Court Road, thinking again of the argument of the previous day. They had met up with Evannah and her boyfriend Tony. Evannah was an old friend of Eric's who was always flirting with him even on her face, for several years. She was also bloody annoying, a barbie with no brains, in Ali's mind, except for doing nasty things. She worked at an art gallery, and she never hid the fact that she found Eric deeply attractive, convincing Ali that she had been after him since the two had met in Bath University years before. Eric, who enjoyed the extra attention, never seemed able to understand why Ali was such a jealous woman, often accusing her of lack of trust. And so on Sunday, a fight had unravelled, once the engaged couple came back from seeing a cricket game with the other two. The fight had kept Ali awake longer than she wished to, as she now felt exhausted.

“For fuck's sakes Eric, I'm not gay! How can you think—? Evannah was just shit-stirring!” Ali had shouted at her fiancé, after the tenth time he pointed out she and Ashlyn spent a lot of time together, and Ali often didn't answer the phone when he called her at work, supposedly because she was busy with surveillances.

“Shit-stirring? Evannah was just pointing out what we all think; that you can't bloody shut up about Harris!”

“She was the one talking about her, not me!”

Evannah couldn't stop talking about Ashlyn, who was now happily in her sixth month of relationship to her girlfriend, Elin, as far as Ali knew. Unlike Ciara and Nina, Ashlyn seemed serious about Elin, and Ali had even met her on a couple Fridays Ashlyn had let her girlfriend join them.

“Is it really just the two of you in the office, nobody else?” Evannah had inquired. “Isn't she gorgeous and talented? If _I_ was ever to cross the road, you know what I mean... it'd be for someone like her. Wouldn't you, Ali?”

“I've never even thought of—,” Ali had attempted, before being interrupted by the blonde.

“I heard she was decorated in Iraq, for saving someone's life, isn't that true? War hero!”

Ali had really done her best to shut her up, but a coolness had nevertheless crept into Eric's manner towards his fiancée by the end of the weekend. His displeasure had been obvious, but not towards Evannah, with whom he had shared laughter back home, as if it hadn't been Evannah who had made things harder between them. Ali was never letting Sarah meet Ashlyn. At the wedding, if Ashlyn came -which she hadn't made clear, because it really depended on how work was going- Ali would get Kyle to keep them far apart the entire evening. He'd do that for her.

“You know, now that I think about it,” Eric had continued in the privacy of their bedroom during the night, “you did look at my girl friends a lot when we were younger, I could've sworn I caught you staring at their ass—,”

“God's sakes! Seriously, Eric? I'm not gay! We already have Kyle for that!”

“Maybe your mother birthed more than one. After all, you're quite the enthusiastic for June being pride month, I bet those long hours at the office with her make you think—,”

“One more word about that, Eric,” Ali had finally exploded. “And I'm throwing this ring down the toilet. I'm not fucking joking, I'm sick of this, I'm sick of having my sexuality questioned, and I'm sick of you talking about gays like this, and if I liked both women and men Eric, I'm still choosing to marry you! And right now, you're making me rethink things a little!”

She had cried, he had apologized, the fight had ended, but the coldness didn't.

Storming into the Denmark Street building where she worked, she almost crashed with the courier, standing in the hall with a long package between his arms.

“Sorry,” Ali apologized, then pointed at the package, “is that for Krieger?” lately she was sending wedding-related things to the office, because the ground-floor flat she and Eric shared in Ealing was empty more often than not. The courier didn't say a word, simply nodded and held out the clipboard he had without taking off his motorcycle helmet. Ali signed and took the long package, which was quite heavy, making her grunt.

Ali pressed the button for the birdcage lift, knowing there was no way she'd carry something so heavy to the third floor up the stairs, and thanked the courier as he left the building. Shortly after, Ali heard the motor and then the lift arrived.

The sound of Ashlyn's voice in the inner office told Ali that the detective was on the phone, working early as usual because they had just so many cases and a long waiting list. Ali wanted to try and catch up with paperwork before she had to go to a surveillance on a dancer a business man was obsessed with and wanted to see if she was cheating. Ali walked straight to her desk, left the long package there, and went to leave her jacket hung on the hook, before finding the sharp letter-opener inside one of her drawers. Remembering the fight with Eric once more, Ali stabbed the end of the package angrily, slitting it open and pulling the box apart.

A woman's severed leg had been crammed sideways in the box, the toes of the foot bent back to fit. Ali's piercing scream hurt her throat and was heard in Australia. She covered her mouth with both hands and the glass door to Ashlyn's inner office burst open. 1,75 metres and looking panicked, Ashlyn stormed in, wearing nice suit trousers, and a light grey shirt with the first few buttons open and the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing fit, thin, tattooed arms.

“Ali, are you okay?” Ashlyn asked, putting a hand on the low of her back before looking at the desk, following her gaze. Her hazel eyes widened and her eyebrows raised before she put her other arm in front of Ali's torso, gripping her opposite shoulder and pushing her away, dragging her out of the office. Gripping her hand strongly, Ashlyn walked her upstairs to her flat,and sat her on her tiny sofa. “How did it arrive?”

“Courier,” Ali answered, her hands shaking as she moved them to her lap. “On a motorbike.” Ashlyn nodded.

“Wait here, I'm calling Abby.”

Ashlyn returned to the office, her hair back in a tight bum as she leaned over the leg with a frown, looking at it. It was cleanly cut from the right knee, it looked to belong to someone very young, it was almost completely hairless, pale. She pressed the phone phone to her ear as she looked through the window, but saw no courier.

“A fucking leg?!” Abby said on the phone. “I'm coming!”

The leg had been cleanly cut right below the knee, and the skin was smooth, the smell starting to be unpleasant, but otherwise Ashlyn would say it had been frozen before being sent, so it hadn't decomposed but it also wasn't bleeding anymore. Ashlyn turned around and quickly went back up to her attic, where she found Ali exactly as she had left her on the sofa, white like a sheet and with trembling hands.

“Hey,” Ashlyn sat next to her and wrapped both arms around her to comfort her, “we'll find out what this is about, Alex. Abby and her colleagues are on their way. We'll figure this out.”

“That leg,” Ali murmured, “it belonged to someone. Someone young. Someone dead.”

“For all we know it could be some sick joke, someone who cut it from a recently buried cadaver,” Ashlyn said, “someone who wants to scare us. It doesn't have to be as gore as we're thinking.”

The detective gave her a last squeeze and went to the kitchen, coming back with two glasses of brandy, one of which she handed Ali. Eric was going to be angry. He didn't hide his dislike for her job, and for Ashlyn.

Meanwhile they drank sitting one next to the other, and Ashlyn kept rubbing her back softly, not knowing how else to comfort her. Then, the buzzer sounded, and Ashlyn went to open. Ali barely heard her tell Abby they were upstairs in the attic. They weren't popular among the Metropolitan Police, but Abby, who had been one of Ashlyn's closest friends for many years, who had been Ashlyn's boss for a few of them, and whose life had been saved by Ashlyn, remained a close, loyal friend.

Shortly after, Abby was entering the attic, accompanied by a younger officer of darker skin.

“Hi,” Abby said, hugging Ashlyn, “this is Detective Sergeant Sydney Dwyer.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ashlyn shook her hand. “Ali's over here. She's the one who got the leg, it came by courier.”

They walked over to Ali and dragged the two chairs by the dinning table so the officers could sit in front of Ali and Ashlyn. Introductions were made, and Ashlyn explained that the package was downstairs, that she had locked the officer so no one went in.

“Ali, can you tell us exactly what happened?” Abby asked gently, leaning forward towards who had become a friend to her as well.

“He was standing in the hall when I arrived from home,” Ali started, “I thought he was a courier. He had a black jacket, of those typical in motorists, leather, and the shoulders of his jacket had some dark red stripes, two on each side. He had a helmet, plan black with the visor down and mirrored, but there was a white brand logo over the visor, small, on the right side. He was about as tall as you, Abby,” she explained with detail, “even allowing for the helmet,” Abby nodded, writing it all down on a notebook. “I guess the jacket could've made him look a bit more like a closet than he probably was, but I still think he was very wide, with wide shoulders, and he had these dark grey gloves, leather, motorist gloves. The motorcycle was parked right outside the door, I passed beside it on my way in. It was a Honda, red with black stripes on the sides. I think 750cc, big.”

Abby looked impressed at her, and amazed, and so did DS Dwyer, sitting next to her.

“Ali is a better driver than Fernando Alonso,” Ashlyn explained proudly. Ali wished she had slept more. Lately, she only slept on her shitty sofa. “She knows so much about vehicles.”

“Okay, and did you speak to him, Ali?” DS Dwyer asked, her eyes looking at her with both gentleness and seriousness.

“No, I asked if it was for Krieger, that's me, because I was expecting a package in relationship to my upcoming wedding,” Ali explained. “I uh, marry later this summer, and because I'm at the office most of the time and my partner works as well, I figured it was better to have wedding things sent here than home. The courier simply held out a clipboard and I signed automatically. No words interchanged. The clipboard had... an invoice...” Ali closed her eyes and frowned, trying to remember more clearly. “Shit, now that I think about it, I think it looked a little amateurish... He handed the package, got on the bike and left towards Charing Cross Road.”

DS Dwyer's phone buzzed and she checked a text.

“DI Wambach, forensics are here,” she said. “I'll accompany them.”

“I'll go with you, if it's okay by Ali?” Ashlyn asked. Ali nodded, and both women went downstairs.

“I want to go too,” Ali murmured. “See what they've got.”

“All right,” Abby stood up. “Let's join them.”

At the office, Ali remainder close to the door, watching from afar as two from the forensics and Dwyer stood around her desk, examining the leg. Abby stood by Ali, and Ashlyn, seeing them, came closer as well.

“There's a note in the package,” Dwyer said, “covered in polythene.”

“It says,” said one of the forensics, holding it with gloves. “A harvest of limbs, of arms and of legs, of necks—,”

“—that turn like swans, as of inclined to gasp or pray,” Ashlyn finished, to their surprise, interrupting him. “Lyrics from the last verse of 'Mistress of the Salmon Salt', by Blue Ôyster Cult. Big seventies rock band, you know.”

“By the way,” the other forensic, who was examining the leg box, interrupted, “good news is the package wasn't originally sent to Ms Krieger. Her name is hand scribbled on top of the original label. Bad news is the original receiver was supposed to be Ms Harris.”

Abby sighed, then looked at Ashlyn.

“Have you got any idea who would send you a severed leg accompanied by those lyrics?”

“Can we talk in private?” Ashlyn said, motioning upstairs.

Abby and Ali followed her back upstairs to the attic, leaving the others to work around the leg. They sat again on the sofa.

“So?” Abby inquired.

“I know several people who would sever body parts, but not as many who would know the lyrics at all,” said Ashlyn, “at least not that they'd mean anything to me. One is Romilda Lynch, she was in the Scottish Navy, I got her life imprisonment, but she was out in ten, on the loose for a few years now. She was an animal, a sociopath... I shouldn't have been investigating the thing for which she was condemned. She was about to get off in the original charge and she's got big reasons to hate my guts. Then there's Trevor Banks, English Navy, he's not mentally right,” Ashlyn explained, becoming more serious and taciturn by the second. “And uh...” she pressed her lips, shaking her head.

“Ashlyn?” Ali inquired. “Who is it?”

“Curtis Frederick Harris,” Ashlyn replied, and both Ali and Abby looked more serious if possible. “I'm not sure how Lynch or Banks could know about the lyrics, I guess there might be something online... but Curtis, he was a huge fan of Blue Öyster Cult, he had those lyrics tattooed on his forearm.”

“I get you hate him, Ash, but you're accusing him of murder, that's a big deal,” Abby murmured.

“He almost killed my mother and I, Abby, he would have if I hadn't stopped him,” Ashlyn reminded her. “I know what he's capable of. Problem is, he's in prison. He was sentenced to life, with possibility of getting out after twenty years. He'll be out in three years now.”

“All right, and what was his deal with that song?” Abby inquired then.

“He was obsessed with that band, used to play them constantly, but that song the most. I guess a lot of people could've seen the lyrics tattooed on his forearm, because he rarely wore long sleeves on the field.”

“Well, Curtis couldn't have done this if he was in prison, but it helps to know whoever did it saw that connection and considered it important for some reason,” Abby said.

“Curtis could've hired—,” Ashlyn started to argue, but Abby interrupted her.

“I'd rather investigate first two very dangerous people who are out there free, than lose time going after the one person who's in prison, Ashlyn.”

The detective shut up and nodded.

“Why was the leg addressed to me?” Ali inquired then, looking alternatively at both women.

“A threat, most likely,” Abby said. “Whoever's done this has been watching Ashlyn's family close enough to know about the lyrics, and those were clearly directed to her. It was first addressed to her as well. But I think whoever's after this realized then that Ashlyn would be far more worried about something happening to anyone close to her than to herself, and just like they've watched close enough to know the lyrics thing, they probably know how close you two are. With you dead, agency dead, but also a good friend, so it'd hit Ashlyn in more than one way. I think,” she continued, her blue eyes fixed on Ali, “you should stay home for now. I'll put some police protection in your street until this is over.”

When Abby eventually left, like the rest of the officers, carrying the leg, Ashlyn and Ali closed the office and sat on the attic sofa for a while. Ashlyn went to the kitchen to make lunch and Ali took advantage to call Eric and tell him what had happened. Ashlyn, who had met Eric on a handful of occasions by then and every time hated him more, heard them argue from the kitchen next door, and when she finally reappeared with two plates of American mac and cheese, or comfort food as she called it, Ali looked frustrated.

“I'm not stopping work,” Ali said as if Ashlyn had challenged her, “I'm not staying at home. That's what Eric wants.”

“So you've phoned him?”

“Yes.”

“I expect he's worried,” Ashlyn said, putting cutlery next to the plates while Ali sat down at the small table.

“He's not worried,” snapped Ali, “he's only hoping this is it, you know? He thinks now I'll have to leave, that I'll be scared out. Well I won't.”

Even though Ali had heard the appalled tone in Eric's voice, she had also heard a bit of satisfaction there, felt his conviction that finally she'd see the ridiculous choice she had done staying in the agency with a salary only slightly superior to the one she had started with. He disliked Ashlyn from the start with what Ali thought to identify as pure envy, because she was now mildly famous and fascinated those around them, while his job didn't have the same cachet, so his resentment and jealousy ran deeper and deeper, hurting their bond. He wanted to go back to the days in which he was the only source of Ali's admiration.

Meanwhile, Ashlyn was not fool enough to encourage Ali to be any disloyal to him. She didn't want to encourage her to do anything that, when she was less shaken and regretted it, would damage their own bond as Ashlyn became the one who gave the advice. At least now the detective didn't have to pretend to like him, nor did Eric. Ali had eventually confronted them both after realizing herself just how they didn't really seem to click, and Ashlyn had confessed she wouldn't marry him, but that was her choice, and she had her reasons to be picky with men, as Ali was like a little sister and, like Kyle, she would never think any man was good enough. She had promised to be civil, nice and polite to Eric always, no matter what, and to do her best effort to bond with him, and she had seen her try her best despite it all.

“Alex,” Ashlyn used the shortened version of her name that she normally used when she was particularly fierce about getting in Ali's good side, because she had noticed being called in such way softened Ali up and soothed her. Perhaps somewhere in her brain, Ali had laced that name with her family and home and safety, because it was there where she was called Alex the most. “I get that you want to keep working, I understand, but this guy possibly killed someone and...” she was trying not to be too specific during lunch, specially as the colour hadn't completely returned to Ali's face. “This is bit gore, and could be the most dangerous we've faced so far. I care about you, I want you to be safe, and they know this address.”

“And they'll find my home address too! Think about it, home I can't really protect myself much, and we shouldn't trust the police that much with the duty either. Here, I've got you. Out in the street, too many witnesses. I'm the safest here. Besides, I live in a ground-floor, easy to get in, here there's only one way in, and there's an intercom and several doors before getting to me, and more hiding places, as I could run up to your attic. I'm safer here, and in the street, working, and with my help you know you'll catch them sooner.”

“ _I_ 'll catch... you really don't have any faith left in the police, do you?” Ashlyn asked with a hint of amusement. Ali, lips red from the pasta sauce, shook her head looking like a little child, softening her heart. “Fine. But nothing after dark—,”

“I did self-defence stuff. I won't take stupid risks, you've trained me well and you can't afford to send me home.”

“And you'll carry this,” Ashlyn went into her bedroom and came back a few minutes later with a pocketknife and a rape alarm that she gave to Ali, “at _all_ times, okay? Minute someone gets too close...”

“I'll use the alarm, I don't need to be stabbing people.”

“You may need it if it gets to that point. Carry both. Please?”

“Fine,” Ali shoved both in her pockets.

“Thank you. And you're doing Clay from now on, until this is solved,” the detective added. Robert Clay was a rich entrepreneur who wanted for an investigator to pose as part-time worker and watch whether a senior manager was using the office as a meeting point for drug dealings. Ali was the only one of them non-recognizable enough publicly to do it. “Are you OK?” Ashlyn inquired, seeing Ali still looked quite sick.

“I uh...” Ali shrugged. “Had a big fight with Eric last night, slept shitty on the sofa, then another row just now... and the leg... I'm not feeling very upbeat if I'm honest.”

Ashlyn nodded, then checked her watch.

“Tell you what, there are still four hours until your usual time to go home, why don't you lie down on my bed for a bit and take a good nap? I'll be right downstairs if you need me, doing paperwork.”

“No, I don't want to—,”

“Ali,” Ashlyn cupped her face gently, and she closed her eyes at the feeling of the soft, warm skin against her cheeks, “you're going to need decent rest to deal with this whole thing, and with Eric's many questions when you go home. And I would rather you're not home alone under the circumstances, rather I'm close by if you're going to be asleep, or him, but I suppose he's still going to be working for a few more hours right?”

“Yeah... okay. Thanks.”

“I'll give you something for that headache.”


	41. Pull me close

**Chapter 41: Pull me close.**

With the smell of Ashlyn deep in her nostrils, Ali has fallen asleep in an instant hugging her pillow, lying over a duvet that, to her surprise, contained sharks and surfboards, and with a warm and soft blanket over her.

When hours later the detective came back to her attic, she found the place very quiet, so she made tea and walked with a mug and some biscuits into her small bedroom, finding Ali asleep with her face pressed against her pillow, that she grabbed with one arm. Now in the summer, with the short sleeves, Ashlyn's eyes were gifted with perfect views of the 'Liebe' tattoo pretty constantly. Ali was quite a fit woman, although lately she was very thin, too much, maybe. Ashlyn put the tea and biscuits on the bedside table and sat on the verge of the bed.

“Alex,” Ashlyn said clearly, trying to wake her up without startling her, “Alex, wake up,” she reached a hand to softly pat her shoulder. With a small jump, Ali looked up and saw her, letting out a long yawn. Ashlyn smiled. “Was that a good nap?”

“So nice, thank you,” Ali sat up, rubbing her eyes carefully, “what time is it?”

“Ten past five,” Ashlyn replied. “It's okay, here's some tea, some biscuits, and I'll walk you to the Tube.”

“There's no need—,”

“Alex, please. I don't want to bury you too, okay?” Ali nodded and squeezed her knee before grabbing the tea.

“Thank you so much. You're the best friend I could ask for.”

“Speaking of friends,” Ashlyn commented as the brunette devoured a biscuit. “Do you see the girls much lately? Christen, Kelley?”

“They work a hell of a lot, Christen's with the World Cup in Germany.”

“Oh, right the World Cup.”

“But we figure it out, once or twice a month. And guess what, Christen and Tobin...” Ali smiled and motioned pressing her index fingers together repeatedly.

“Oh,” Ashlyn chuckled, “yeha, those two... Tobin was lost for her the day she met her.”

“Do you believe in that? Love at first sight?”

Ashlyn looked intently at her, but shrugged.

“I believe that sometimes when you meet someone, you know right away they're going to turn your life upside down forever.”

“Did you feel that for Elin?”

“Doesn't have to happen always. Come on, eat that. Get some strength.”

That night, Ashlyn was going to see Elin for dinner. The violinist had divorced from a man three months before. She had a three-year-old daughter with whom the detective tried to keep relationships to a very strict minimum because she didn't want to hurt her if she became close to Ashlyn but then the relationship didn't work-out. The little girl was three weeks in a row with a different parent, and weekends were, every now and then, shared. Because of this, Ashlyn only went to Elin's when the little girl was with her father, and the rest of the time they'd either go out if Elin could get a nanny, or meet during the daughter's school hours.

This dinner, they were going to celebrate Elin had gotten a newer, smaller place. For a while, she had insinuated with Ashlyn that they could move together, that Ashlyn could watch flats with her, but Ashlyn had been insistent on her wish to live on her own for now, saying she didn't want to force her daughter into having to see her for three weeks in a row all the time. What actually was her biggest reason was that she simply didn't want to move in with someone else less than a year post Lisbeth. She'd be married on Friday, and Ashlyn was still struggling a little.

However due to the circumstances, Ashlyn had phoned Elin while Ali slept, and had cancelled the evening, telling her they had received somebody's limb in the office and the day had turned too complicated for her to have any energy. She hadn't liked it much, but had been understanding, nevertheless.

After phoning her SIB friend Niki Cross, who was currently working in the HMS Drake in Plymouth, Ashlyn sat in front of her laptop on her sofa and in the search box, after a moment of thought, typed: _Romilda Lynch._ There were plenty of them, but Ashlyn ruled out anyone who had been paying rent or voting in elections while Lynch had been in jail. At last, after filtering results a few times, she narrowed her focus on a woman who had been living with a Lorraine McNaughton in Corby just a few years back. McNaughton was now registered alone.

Then, Ashlyn searched for Trevor Banks, a less common name that gave less good results. After a moment staring blankly at the street, Ashlyn changed 'Trevor' for Melissa, and several results came up. Ashlyn, however, had no way of telling if any of them was the Melissa Banks she was looking for.

 _It can't be her_ , Ashlyn thought. _Please no_. Because if it was her, it was her fault.

For the next couple days, both women were extremely vigilant of their surroundings, and particularly Ali, who had to commute every single day, and who kept comparing everyone with the false courier she had seen. At the same time, they both were anxiously wondering when would things become news. They knew that the moment Ashlyn's name was associated with the kind of person who receives legs, it would become a hard blow to their agency.

Meanwhile, Ali had to worry about her own domestic problems. The fridge at home, lately a little empty, was not going to be filled by Eric, who didn't enjoy grocery shopping or, actually, any domestic tasks. She had the theory that, since she contributed less than a third of the household income, he took for granted that she ought to compensate by doing all those things he hated, so she ironed, did the laundry, put the dishwasher, did the shopping, cleaned around the house, caught criminals and, if she had time, she'd also sleep every now and then. Eric would go to work 9 to 5, go to the pub for a beer with his mates every now and then, and come home tired, expecting to have a warm dinner in front, and would maybe watch the telly before bed time, where he often would put his arms around Ali, pressing his hardness against her through their pyjamas, until she realized what he wanted and gave it to him. And if any given day Ali failed in her domestic obligations, rows would start. Ali only hoped that with marriage things would be okay again, as they had been before meeting Ashlyn.

On Wednesday morning, Ali sat taking a look at their many weird letters, odd correspondence they had been attracting since they last solved the second high-profile murder case of their agency. The few writers who seemed to still be in their right mind asked for money, thinking that they were now rolling on pounds, while others either wanted to sleep with Ashlyn or clearly had an ongoing mental illness, which led for Ashlyn to call the drawer where they all were stored 'the nutter drawer'.

“I've got something!” Ali shouted then victoriously, and after hearing Ashlyn's chair roll, it was only a few seconds before Ashlyn appeared, extending a hand to grab the letter Ali was offering her. Most of the time Ashlyn refused to read them, telling Ali to just store them in the drawer, but Ali always wanted to read them all. “That's from February.”

“Jesus Christ, and I'm not allowed to call them nutters?” Ashlyn's eyebrows had flown to her hairline. “This woman wants to cut off her own leg, just because I almost lost mine.” Ashlyn's knee had, when the bomb had occurred, fractured bone, ruptured tendons and muscle, to the point that it had only held the rest of the leg by threads, some bone, and little more. Even nowadays she still needed rehab, and she had had several surgeries in the two years since. “When will they understand I didn't _choose_ to almost lose my leg and have a lifetime of trouble with it, but that a ship exploded around me?”

“It's called... _not_ being a nutter,” Ali said before Ashlyn could anticipate her, and she laughed, showing her dimple. Ali rolled eyes but conceded a smirk. “It's a phenomenon of people who really feel they should be amputated somehow. “Because of your story, the nutter drawer is full of—,” it had escaped her lips by accident, and Ashlyn made a victorious sound.

“I don't think you should call it the nutter drawer, Alexandra, Bit disrespectful to our mentally ill—,”

“Oh, shush you!” Ali smiled against her will, covering Ashlyn's mouth with her hand, and the detective laughed.

“Anyway,” Ashlyn's smile died, and Ali sat back on her chair, “you don't have to do Robert Clay anymore.”

“Why?” Ali frowned. “I'm perfectly—,” Ashlyn raised a hand to stop her.

“He just called me. He thinks we're _both_ too newsworthy to plant in his office now.”

“Shit.”

“We've also lost Evanson, Edgel and Welles,” added Ashlyn, “all since Monday. And it's only going to get worse, even more when the journalists start crowding by the front door.”

“Bugger,” despite the circumstances, the detective smiled small. Ali had a Northerner habit of saying 'bugger', in a way that when she was tense, it'd sound like 'boogger'. “What are we going to do? They were good jobs?”

“You'll be on Platinum for now, hopefully we can keep that one. Have you read the newspaper? Did anyone notice they're missing a leg?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Too soon?”

“Yes.”

“I've been doing some digging. Lynch and Banks could be anywhere, pretty much,” said Ashlyn. “Couldn't quite find them. And Abby says she's checked Curtis' still in prison, but I might visit him. Y'know, make sure he hasn't spoken to anyone, see if he could be interested in...”

Ali scowled, looking up at him.

“When was the last time you visited him?” Ali asked. Ashlyn shrugged.

“I have never visited,” she admitted. “I last saw him at the trial in 1994.”

“That's seventeen years ago.”

“I know.”

“He's the only family you've got... I mean... aside your extended family. Don't you ever... wish to start over? Forgive him, move on? He'll be out soon. You could still have a Dad. You don't have to lose more.”

Ashlyn sighed and looked towards the window.

“He was a great man once, although I don't remember any of it,” Ashlyn admitted. “I've seen photographs, and there have been so many people to tell me about him over the years... everyone agrees he was a fantastic friend in school, a sweet, good boy, hardworking, came to training the first one and left the last one every day. People say that what fucked him over was having to retire at 26, when he had to retire, missing that year's World Cup in which England didn't participate. He had fallen in love with my mother and they had married the year before, everything was so rushed with them, everyone says they were such lovebirds. So naturally, she got pregnant soon and when Christopher was born in the 78, my Mum convinced him to retire and spend more time with them, help her with their so-wanted child. They always wanted a boy. I guess Curtis thought it'd be enough. He became a coach, but he never quite adapted to not playing... people say that's when he got bad. He wasn't used to the domesticity, changing nappies and all... and he started drugs and drinking and being violent,” Ali looked at her with a slight frown. Ashlyn seemed miles away. “But at the same time he craved sex, so... I'm actually pretty sure I was conceived via rape,” Ashlyn added with a grim smile. “Because there have been people who said Mum started hating him around the time, so... I doubt she was very happy with intimacy. But he was a strong, big guy. And he hated having one more child, becoming more and more domestic... he hated every bit of it. He started leaving the house a lot, disappearing... fucking other women, probably, to avoid the risk of a third kid... I only remember how much he shouted and shoved people. He lost most of his old friends before Christopher was even dead. After that, he became the worst, and he lost every remaining friend or family support. He was a terrible person by then. And ever since he was arrested, his own parents say they don't have a child. That he died. It's easier for them than to admit they raised someone capable of hurting his wife so badly she almost died, she would have if I hadn't intervened, and if the paramedics hadn't been so fast and so skilled. And he would've killed me too. It's not like he didn't try. He's been trying to kill me pretty much since I was born.”

“Come on, you can't know that.”

“I do know,” Ashlyn looked at her. “Mum told me everything once he was gone. She told me how she came home one day, days after my birth, to find him playing Russian roulette with me. I'm not fucking joking. The only satisfaction I gave him was playing in his position, and even then he got so angry when he saw I was complimented for my skills, winning small prizes, having coaches talk so nice of me... Christopher was the only one he ever really loved, the one he really wanted. I was the one who fucked things up further, with Chris... even when he forced him to be home more, to quit... he always had a soft spot for him. Hated my mother for becoming pregnant twice, and nonsensically, loved him. He was his biggest pride. And I...” she shrugged. “He was jealous, I guess. People called me the female Curtis Harris, saying I'd bring more World Cups to England. He never came to my games either. He was a violent, scary man. So... no... I think I'm better off without a father, Ali. I haven't forgotten how he treated us. I haven't forgotten the stuff he did to me, and I haven't quite forgiven him yet. I don't want to see him, but I reckon it might be the best way to figure out whether he could've had anything to do with this.”

“I'll go with you.”

“No, I'm not letting him ever know you exist, he's never coming anywhere near you.”

“Ashlyn,” Ali insisted. “I am coming. Think about it, whenever he gets out of prison, he might come for revenge if he hates you so much. And he's what... 59 now? I won't recognize him and I could be in danger. It's better I face him now, so I'm always aware enough to protect myself, or you, if he appears.”

“He's got a restraining order, he won't—,”

“We both know how well those things work.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and finally Ashlyn shook her head.

“I'll show you a picture when the day comes. But I cannot let you come with me. I've got to do this alone.”

Without further argument, she went back into the inner office.

  
  


  
  



	42. Paternity issues

**Chapter 42: Paternity issues.**

“Do you really have to go?” the gorgeous woman next to her asked, rolling over to caress her naked chest.

“Yes. Today's very important.” Ashlyn was already moving to get up.

As she dressed wearing a suit, anxiety boiling in her chest, Elin contemplated her, nude and beautiful, on the bed.

“You could come for dinner tonight. It's the last week before my turn.”

“I'm not sure I'll be in the mood, Elin,” Ashlyn confessed. “It's a hard day for me.”

“What's wrong, darling?” Elin hugged her from behind, kissing her shoulder as the other woman buttoned-up her shirt. Ashlyn gulped a knot in her throat and got her shaking hands to work her buttons.

“I'm seeing my father for the first time in seventeen years. I have to visit him in prison.” She never called him father unless it was to explain their relationship to someone who didn't know the story.

“Oh, darling... is it for work?” Ashlyn nodded. “It's gonna be okay. He cannot hurt you anymore. Look, if you feel like it, or if you just one someone to hold you... I'll be here all day after work. Just come any time, or call me... I'll be here.”

“Thanks, Elin. Very sweet of you,” Ashlyn pecked her lips and moved to put on her shoes.

Her memories of Curtis were fourteen years of mostly repressed memories. As Ashlyn walked into the bus to go to Kings' Cross, she remembered how her first therapist had had to explain her what child trauma was. How she didn't need to be a survivor of a disaster to have child trauma. She didn't need to remember every detail. The first fourteen years of her life had been a nightmare enough to condition her whole life, transforming her into an anxious person with depression and anxiety disorders, someone who could still remember new bits of memories well into her adulthood if something triggered them, someone who had needed her jobs to feel strong enough to go through life. Still, the idea of seeing Curtis was enough to freak her out.

Entering one of the two trains she needed to take in order to reach HMP Whitemoor prison on Friday morning, Ashlyn gulped an anxiety pill. She really didn't want to do this.

At last, she arrived at March, the town closest to HMP Whitemoor, and had a quick lunch before finding the bus to the prison. It was an expensive commuting, but it would only be once. In the bus, she browsed Curtis Harris for the first time, and saw a photograph from 1994, when he had been arrested at age forty-two. A big, tall man came to sight, sitting in trial, just like she remembered him. He has strong, fit and wide, like a closet, taller than she was, with short dark hair going white, thick eyebrows, a dimple on the side opposite to Ashlyn's dimple, a dark beard and brown eyes. He had kind of handsome. He had lost fifteen pounds after Ashlyn had stabbed him straight in the stomach, almost killing him, and having he need a surgery that would connect his oesophagus straight with his intestines, worsening his quality of life significantly.

With other hundreds of people, Ashlyn entered the visiting room, full of fixed tables and fixed chairs.

“Curtis Harris?” she asked a police officer, straightening her suit.

“This way,” the officer took her to a table in the far corner, and she was surprised to see a man that seemed equally surprised to see her.

At 59, Curtis was thinner than she had ever seen him, still tall and strong though, still wide, with his hair white and his beard white and reduced to goatee and short moustache.

“Ashlyn?” he asked, standing up, handcuffed to the table, and frowning lightly as he narrowed his eyes trying to discern who she was.

“Hi,” Ashlyn breathed out. She was wearing a suit without a tie, her hair shoved back in a bun, and her hands were already sweaty.

“Woah,” Curtis side-smiled, sitting back down. “You've changed so much. Still tomboy, uh?” Ashlyn sat down, clenching her jaw. “You've got a good body for suits. Not everyone can rock them.” He added, surprising her.

“I heard you don't usually have visitors.”

“That's right. What do I owe the pleasure?” his voice was as deep as she remembered it, but softer.

“I was wondering whether...” Ashlyn cleared her throat, uncomfortable. “Whether you're still friends with questionable companies.”

Curtis snorted, intertwining his fingers over the table.

“Honey, these days I'm nobody's friend,” he said, matter-of-fact. “I don't even have a family, do I? Your grandparents haven't accepted my phonecalls once. Not even for Christmas.”

“Well you earned it, didn't you?” Ashlyn said through gritted teeth. “Mum's dead because of you. _You_ killed her.” She looked at him with angry tears.

“Honey, I...” Curtis sighed. “I'm so, so sorry, Ashlyn. I know I haven't been a good father. But I loved your mother more than—,” his eyes filled with tears, and Ashlyn couldn't tell if they were fake. “She's the one I miss the most. The one I find the hardest to live with. She was the love of my life, and she died thinking I hated her.”

“Because you did.”

“Maybe for a while. But I've been here so long... you don't know what this is like. Sitting in a tiny cell, alone, every day of your life for over a decade. Minutes here feel like days, days feel like years... it gives you a long time to think. To regret things. And you don't know how hard I regret everything I did. How I hurt you, Chris, your Mum... I'll be out here soon, Ash, and... I miss having a family so much, all I can do is think how am I going to earn your forgiveness. And I'll do anything. Anything for you to love me. Anything for you to call me Dad again. My precious daughter, now all grown a powerful, strong woman.”

“I'll never call you Dad,” Ashlyn snapped, feeling herself tremble. Even today, she was still so afraid of that man, and she realized then. “I'll never love you. Not even one bit. If someone stabbed you in prison and killed you, they'd do me a favour.”

“If you meant that, you wouldn't be here.”

“Oh, I do mean it. I'm only here because I think you're behind a murder.”

“A murder? I've never murdered anyone, and I'm also a prisoner in case you haven't realized.”

“You've contacted people outside, haven't you? Getting them to do the dirty job for you?”

“Who? Why?” Curtis shook his head. “What would I even have to offer in exchange? I have no reason to commit more crimes and earn more time in this shithole, honey, I have no friends outside to contact, and I have no money. When I come out of here I'll be completely alone, unemployed, and with no one willing to give me a job. Not exactly the kind of person to buy anyone's services.”

“I will prove you did it.”

“I did what?” he asked confused.

“You killed—,”

“I haven't killed anyone, honey.”

“Yes, you have. No matter how much you deny it,” Ashlyn stood up, indicating the guard she had finished. “Bye, Curtis. I hope you root in hell and I never have to see you again.”

“Ashlyn, wait!” Curtis stood up, looking desperate. “I love you, my daughter. I love you, honey. And if anyone's after you, if anyone's hurting you, I'll protect you. I'll do anything, anything for you, okay? If you ever need your Dad... I'll do anything.”

Ashlyn scowled at him.

“Protect me? You're the very first person I've got to protect myself from. You've done enough.”

A horrible flashback had appeared in the blink of an eye in front of Ashlyn's eyes, and she had to hurry out of the room and into the bathroom. The moment she closed the door, she hunched over the toilet and threw up. And as she clenched her eyes shut, she got a sudden memory long buried in the depths of her brain, long blocked, that now fought to resurface. She could hear herself crying and begging.

“ _No, Daddy, stop! It hurts! Please!”_

“ _Sush now, my daughter. I love you, honey. Just hold on for a little bit, I promise the pain won't last. You're going to love it.”_

She threw up again and sat on the floor, hugging herself, breaking into tears. She could feel his hands gripping her hips strongly, not letting her go, his hand on her throat so she'd shut up. Him breaking into her, lacerating, taking away every bit of innocence left.

How could she have forgotten something like that? How was it possible for her brain to shove in such a huge memory? But it did make sense now. Why Ashlyn always felt severely uncomfortable when hands touched her down there, and she could only stand oral, and only on the surface, without putting pressure in her entrance. Why she avoided pap smears at all costs, because from the first day they gave her high levels of anxiety. Why she and Dave could never actually have sex, as much as they had lied about it, because the first time they almost did it she had suddenly felt panic raising, unexplainable, and had broken into the worst panic attack of her life, so bad that she had almost fainting for the raged breathing, and Dave had had to fight her for her to let him help her. Why she could never be passive in the bedroom, why her periods were irregular and odd, why she could not use tampons... She must've had damage done, damage that she never got properly diagnosed, probably because she hadn't gone to the doctor as a child, and then the memory had become too repressed for her to think about it.

Ashlyn didn't know how long she was in the bathroom, nursing the panic, but eventually, she left it, pale as a sheet, and walked outside looking for fresh air, and found herself walking by a long, narrow road, with grass and big bushes and trees at both sides. March was pretty much six or seven streets with industrial things, a giant Tesco and a small pub. She had two beers in a pub, with shaking hands, and got into the earliest bus back to get into the first train she could get back to London. She fell asleep in the train, sinking into nightmares of rape that were in truth actual memories she had never thought of before in over twenty years, and once in London, Ashlyn needed mere minutes to find a pub where to drink her sorrows away. It didn't matter if it wasn't even five in the afternoon yet. She drank, then drank more, until her brain could barely make coherent thoughts.

Her phone then buzzed, and she answered it while leaving the pub.

“Yes?” she asked, dragging the 's' a little.

“Ash?” it was Ali. “Did you come back to London? Where are you?”

“Imma...” Ashlyn looked around and stopped walking, the avenue moving around her and forcing her to hold onto a lamp-post. “London, yess...”

“Are you okay? You sound... odd.”

“I'm fine. What'ya doin'?”

“Well, I'm at the office. I was just calling because it's past the usual closing time, and you haven't come to do the surveillances you said you'd do. And since you didn't want me to go back to the tube by myself with this whole thing on... I figured I'd wait for you. I'm sorry to tell you we've lost three clients more today, so I really didn't have much to do all day. And Whit's here, she was wondering if we're doing the usual Friday drinks, didn't know about the prison visit and you didn't answer her calls. How did it go for you?”

 _Shit_.

“Oh,” Ashlyn closed her eyes, trying to focus, “Imma sowy, Ali. Sor-ry.” She tried again.

“Are you okay Ash? Where are you? I'll pick you up.”

“I was uh... dunno. I'm out,” Ashlyn turned around and read the closest thing to her. “Thesstarr off... kings...” Ashlyn read, narrowing her eyes.

“The star of kings?” Ashlyn nodded, even if Ali couldn't see.

“Near King's Cross.”

“All right. Stay right there, okay? I'm coming to get you.”

“Als,” Ashlyn stopped her before she hung up. “Als, Imma lil' pissed...”

“I know, sweetie. I know. That's okay. I'm going to hang-up, okay? Please stay there, Ashlyn. Do not move.”

“Not move.”

“Good. I'll be right there.”

Ashlyn nodded again, and Ali hung up.

Ashlyn sat on a chair inside The Star of Kings, waiting, because it was raining outside. The waiter came over and eyed her as she could barely hold herself sitting up straight.

“Are you going to want another beer?”

“Imma... waitin'” Ashlyn leaned forward with a grunt of effort. “Forr mah frien'. T'go.”

“Ma'am, the pub's full, I'm going to have to ask you to wait standing-up, we need the table for those who are actually drinking.”

“Imma sorry,” Ashlyn murmured. “You bein' rude tho. I'm only be here forr two minutes. 'Nd... I'm a Navy vet'ran. I fought in fuckin' Iraq. I caught two serial killers here 'n London. 'Nd Imma verry sad, if you didn't not'ce. Why cannI sit here two minutes? Not botherin' you. Not botherin' anyone. Just... alone.”

The waiter looked at her at a loss of words, but then Ali appeared, her raincoat soaked. She looked relieved when she saw Ashlyn, and the waiter looked relieved to see her.

“There you are, sweetheart,” Ali grinned, squatting in front of her and caressing her face. “Hi. Let's go home, uh?”

“See?” Ashlyn snapped at the waiter, slowly standing with Ali's help. “Bloody rude. I'm leavin', 'kay? 'fter I risked my ass for 'ngrat'ful jerks like wuv, dis'sa how wuv thank me.”

“Oh, you're so drunk,” Ali opened an umbrella and held it mostly on Ashlyn, helping her get to the car and sitting her in the backseat, sliding next to her. “She's really drunk Hao.”

Heather looked back between the front seats, seeing Ali having to do Ashlyn's belt because the older woman couldn't manage on her own.

“Thank you,” Ashlyn said, hands shaking, and hugged herself. “We goin' t' the Tottenham?”

“Dear God no, you've had enough for today,” Heather squeezed her knee, and Ashlyn sat as close as possible to Ashlyn, wrapping an arm around her. “Don't worry Ali, I'll take her home with us today. Where do I drop you off?”

“I'll tell my fiancé I'll be home late, I'm coming with you. I can't go home until I know what happened.”

“All right. I'll drive you later then. You're not going home alone with all that's happening, don't bother arguing!”

Ashlyn leaned against Ali's shoulder and when Ali wrapped her arms around her, she noticed she was shaking, so she held her tighter, caressing her hair and wishing that she had never gone to visit the prison.

  
  



	43. Water turmoil

**Chapter 43: Water turmoil.**

When they finally entered the house in Octavia Street, Nick appeared in the hall, his shirt's first few buttons undone, his tie hanging loose, looking surprised at them.

“What's going on?” he asked, seeing Ali and Whitney struggle to hold Ashlyn walking.

“I wish we knew,” Whitney said, face red from the effort, as she gripped one of her best friend's arms around her shoulders. “All we know is she's gone to visit Curtis for work, and now she's on the verge of an intoxication.”

“Shit, let me help.”

Nick easily threw one of Ashlyn's arms around his shoulders, put an arm around her back and another under her legs, and lifted her up with a grunt, carefully leaving her on the sofa, where he lied her down, putting pillows under her head. Whitney went to get a bucket and Ali sat on the sofa, taking Ashlyn's shoes off and leaving them on the floor while Nick tried unsuccessfully to get an explanation out of Ashlyn. Whitney came back with a bucket as Nick removed Ashlyn's jacket, putting it aside.

“Have you eaten anything Ash?” Nick, who was a doctor, asked.

“Woh?” Ashlyn inquired, narrowing her eyes trying to focus him.

“Food?”

“Yes,” the detective nodded. “Puked tho.”

“Okay then that's as good as nothing. Love, can you get her something?” Nick asked Whitney, who nodded, rushing to the kitchen.

“Nick,” Ashlyn patted his chest lazily, “you good man. You good. You wouldn't hurt Whit, uh? You be a good hubby for my friend uh?”

“Of course,” Nick smiled softly. “I love Whit. I'd never hurt her on purpose.”

“Dave's good too,” Ashlyn added incoherently. “Dave's a good mate.”

“Yes he is. Wonderful guy.”

“Ssss good,” Ashlyn nodded, and struggled to sit up.

“Easy Ash, easy there.”

The detective sat in front of Nick, who was sitting on the coffee table, and next to Ali, and threw her head back, taking deep breaths. Nick put the bucket on her lap and she hugged it, pale, before vomiting on it.

“Better out than in,” Ali smiled warmly, rubbing soothing circles on her back as another wave of puke came out.

By the time Whitney came back with a big bacon and eggs sandwich, the kind of thing that would normally make Ashlyn drool, the detective was still hugging the bucket and throwing up into it, all pure liquid; several litres of beer and whiskey.

“So what was this about?” Nick asked Ali.

“Ashlyn thought Curtis was behind the leg thing,” Ali explained. “She wouldn't let me go with her, and she went alone, today, to Whitemoor, and spoke with him. I've got no idea what happened, but this is the result.”

“I'm good now,” Ashlyn spatted into the bucket a few times, and handed it over in exchange for the sandwich. “I knew I smelled bacon.” She gave it a big bite, a few locks of hair having escaped her bun and pressing into her sweaty pale face as she munched.

“The day she refuses food we'll know it's really bad, until then, breathe calm,” Whitney snorted a laugh and left to get rid of the bucket.

“I'll get you some water,” Nick got up for the kitchen, and Ali pressed a kiss against Ashlyn's head.

“You're staying here tonight,” Ali said. “Press is surrounding the office. We packed you some pyjamas and some clothes for the weekend. I also grabbed all important files so we can avoid the office until they leave. We can work from here, or at Kyle's or at my place.”

“Thank you, Ali,” Ashlyn patted her knee with a sweaty cold hand. “You're the best workmate and friend I could've asked for,” she added hoarsely, “and I'm very sorry I'm such a disaster.”

“Just because I don't fancy pubs as much as you, it doesn't mean you're the only disaster here. That's why we make such a good team.”

“Here,” Nick handed Ashlyn a two-litre bottle of water, “doctors, never trusting pipe water.”

Ashlyn stopped eating for a bit and drank a quarter of the bottle.

“Can I finish it tomorrow?” Ashlyn looked pleadingly at Whitney as she came back.

“Of course, I'll put it in the fridge,” Whitney took the rest of the sandwich away and came back. “Want to shower and go to bed?”

“Can I have a bath?” Ashlyn asked like a shy little child. “My legs feel a little wobbly.”

“Sure,” Nick stood up. “I'll go and prepare you a nice hot bath with some salts and all, uh? That'll feel good.”

“Ashlyn,” Whitney sat on the other side of her and wrapped both arms around her, pressing a kiss against her temple, “what did he do now, sweetie? Did he say anything terrible?”

“He was very nice,” Ashlyn said, slurring a little. “He said he had nothing to do with our problem. He said if anyone was after me, he'd protect me. He said he loved me, and wanted to earn my forgiveness. That he'll do anything for me. He kept calling me honey and all. Bloody sweet.”

“So? Why did you get so drunk?”

Ashlyn leaned back, thoughtful, and looked down at her lap. She looked exhausted.

“Do you remember that time, when Mum was staying in the hospital, and I was staying with you,” Ashlyn started, her voice filled with exhaustion and hoarseness, “and we were watching football on the telly with your Dad, and his team lost, and he started shouting at the TV and cursing? And I started crying?”

“Of course,” Heather nodded. “Dad panicked and kept apologizing, but you had a full-blown panic attack and we had to take you to therapy. That was over a decade ago.”

“And the therapist told your Dad that I was traumatized and he had to provide me a safe environment without shouting or yelling because those things could be triggers,” Ashlyn said. “She told your Dad how there was no way to know the extend of things, because I could be repressing memories, and there was no way to know what'd trigger them or when.”

“Right,” Heather nodded again.

“Well there was something Curtis did,” Ashlyn said then, looking up at her with empty eyes, “when he was being so sweet, saying he loved me. He made me remember some stuff that happened, with some frequency, after Christopher died. Stuff between Curtis and I that no one ever knew. Stuff I somehow didn't remember that had happened. That I could never tell anyone. That's why I got pissed. But it's fine, I've got therapy on Saturday mornings. Just saying, I may not be the best company this weekend.”

Ali scowled, her heart clenching in her chest, and Whitney looked visibly worried,taking Ashlyn's hand between her own.

“What is it?” Whitney asked.

“Curtis,” Ashlyn took a deep breath and her eyes filled with tears, “took my virginity.”

She broke into intense crying, slumping on Whitney's arms, and Whitney held her tightly. Ali's eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hands in horror. She couldn't believe he had fallen so low.

**. . .**

On Saturday, the detective woke up feeling like dead, but stood up from bed and went on with her typical Saturday. Therapy, cancelling lunch with Elin and returning to Whitney, only to get a phone-call from Abby as she was sitting for lunch.

“Forensics say the leg came off a woman aged between midteens and midtwenties and that she was dead when it was cut off,” Abby said from the start. “It was kept in a freezer.”

Ashlyn closed her eyes. Melissa Banks was about that age.

“Trevor Banks has a step-daughter, Melissa, she's around that age,” Ashlyn said. “She had old scarring on her leg, I saw something alike on this leg.”

“This leg's scarring was very old.”

“Look for her, okay? There are reasons for him to kill her. What about CCTV?”

“Ali's a fantastic witness, it was just like she said. Fake plates though, everything else is just like she described. He drove off south-west, towards a real courier depot. We last had him on camera in Wimbledon. Could be anywhere now with the plates.”

“Did you also get the photocopies of our nutter letters? Ali must've emailed them to you.”

“Yeah, we're taking a look at those too. Creepy letters mate.”

“All right, thanks Abby, talk to you later.”

“You OK Ash? You sound—,”

“I'm just tired. Talk later, have a good day.”

After lunch, Ashlyn went jogging, and was on it when Ali phoned her. Puffing, not really feeling like talking with anyone, Ashlyn attended the call.

“All good, Ali?”

“Just checking on you. How did therapy go?”

“Fine, Abby's called, the victim was dead before the leg was cut off. She was young, between fifteen and twenty-five.”

“Bugger... whole life ahead.”

“Yeah, but for all we know she might've been a stolen body. Police said it's been kept in a freezer before being sent to us.”

“Okay, well, want to meet for dinner? Eric and I had a huge fight yesterday, but in the end he made a promise to be better and more chill, so he won't have any problems with a friends' night. We could do something fun, go to the pub or so, with Kelley, Kyle... you could call Pinoe, Abby, and Whit... or Elin. There's a concert in a pub, I heard it's some Indie group, might be fun.”

“All right,” Ashlyn nodded. “All right, I'll see you... dunno, pick you up?”

“I'll get you with Kyle and Kelley. We're already out. See you in a couple hours?”

“Okay, good, thanks.”

“Also, Ash, I've got to go to Masham next week for some wedding arrangements, if that's okay?”

The perspective of having Ali away from the danger for a few days gave Ashlyn the biggest sense of relief.

“Of course it's all right, you've been earning days off since the minute one. Go, see your family, have some fun, take the time you need. With all those clients we've lost, I can handle things on my own for a few days.”

“Don't sound so relieved, now fix it,” Ashlyn could hear the smile in her voice.

“And I... will miss you super dearly?”

“Better. See you in a bit!”

Ashlyn took a deep breath. She was going to need a few drinks to keep going. She couldn't stop thinking of the encounter with Curtis Harris, and when she closed her eyes she could feel his hands on her skin, taking off her bra while she fought him, pinning her down with one hand squeezing her neck... all saying she loved her. Maybe that was why she had accepted relationships like Lisbeth, who used her and hurt her on the name of love. Perhaps there was something deeply rotten and twisted in her brain that had thought her father did love her, and that when people loved you they were supposed to hurt you proper. Lisbeth, who had married months ago and was now pregnant, as it had been relieved two weeks before, expecting twins, had said 'I love you' until it lost its meaning, whichever it was supposed to have.

And now, Ashlyn felt shot down. She didn't remember ever feeling so weak and vulnerable, so out of the game. She couldn't even think of the leg or the case, she just keep going back to her fourteen year old self, and feeling so alone and hurt inside, but understanding so many things of her last seventeen years of life, particularly things inside the bedroom. As if on automatic, Ashlyn found herself calling one of her best friends in the world, Dave Polworth, the only man she had ever dated.

“Diddy! How are you, mate?” his cheerful, juvenile voice came around. He always seemed full of energy, despite parenthood.

“Bit shit,” Ashlyn said, already walking back towards Octavia Street.

“What's wrong?”

“I need to ask you something and I want you to be honest,” said Ashlyn, “completely honest. Will you?”

“Uh, of course Ash, what's the matter?”

“That time we went to have sex, and I freaked out like crazy when you went to... to put it in...” Ashlyn took a deep breath. “And I got so crazy we agreed to never talk about it again and just say we enjoyed a great sex life so no one would know that about me... did you think maybe I was suffering rape PTSD?”

“I uh...”

“Dave...” he sighed.

“Yes. You didn't see yourself. I thought you were going to get a heart attack, and naturally it led me to think that had been a PTSD episode from rape. I figured maybe Curtis or something... but I didn't want to mention because if it wasn't, why bother? And if it was and you didn't remember... why make you remember?”

“You're right. Thing is, mate... I remembered. Yesterday, it finally struck me,” Ashlyn's voice got hoarse and her eyes dampened inevitably. It didn't matter she had spent two hours talking about it with her therapist already. “The year after the car accident, Curtis was always angry, and he went to me to feel... something. Maybe to feel the warmth of another human being, I don't know. And I was his whore. For a whole fucking year, until he was arrested. I didn't just stab him so brutally because of what he was doing to Mum... I did it so brutally because I was so bloody angry for more than one reason.”

“Shit Ash, I... I really hoped it wasn't true, all these years. I'm so sorry. Do you need me to come over? 'Cause I will.”

“No, it's... you heard about the leg, it's crazy here. I just... you were always the only guy I could get so intimate with and... I just wanted to hear your voice. And to thank you for... all you did. Even if we never got so far, you were always the sweetest.”

“I don't respect men who do otherwise,” said Dave. “What brought it up? Sex with Elin getting kinky?”

“No, it was... I visited Curtis in prison. I had to know if he could be involved with the leg and then... his voice just... major flash back.”

“I understand. What baffles me is, how come with women... it was never a problem, intimacy?”

“Oh, it was, I just never knew why. Like... Beth was always insisting on strap-ons, and I couldn't even wear it, it was a total turn-off, and I got anxious just thinking about having it close. I generally don't let women touch me that much and... well, they forget about it after a couple orgasms, you know?”

“My poor thing... have you ever even had one, Ash?”

“Yeah, hey, I did with you, remember? I do get there, it's just...”

“Only clit and boobs.”

“Exactly. No touching that hole,” Ashlyn sighed. “And hell, my periods were always a mess like, six months no, and then suddenly three drops of blood. I'm pretty sure he fucked something up in there and I'm infertile. I did have some heavy bleeding back in the day, and he always found any odd explanation to avoid doctors. Like, looking up, there were many signs something had to have happened. I just... I guess my brain was making a huge effort to deny things. Hide it.”

“Well, take it easy now, bud. Calm down, go to the doctor, get checked... maybe Nick can recommend you some trustworthy female doctor to do it. Make sure you're physically fine. And forget. There's nothing else to do. Above all, don't lock yourself up alone.”

“I won't. Ali's captaining a night out with the girls and her brother.”

“Great! Take advantage, have some fun, forget this shit a little, count on them.”

“I'm pretty sure I'll ruin their night...” Ashlyn murmured pessimistically as she entered Octavia Street.

“When is it going to enter your damn stubborn head that friends are there precisely for these things? And it's not a bother. Those women know if _anything_ were to happen, even bloody break-ups with two-weeks-long boyfriends, you'd be right there in the first row for them. They know it. And they love you and bloody care about you—,”

“Curtis said he loved me too. Time and time again, while he fucked me,” Ashlyn said between grilled teeth. “And Lisbeth said she loved be while slapping me for being a bad girlfriend. What does love mean, Chum?”

“Well clearly none of those things,” said Dave easily. “Love is when Whit and I drove all the way from St. Mawes to London overnight with our parents to hug you and take care of you when your Mum was in the hospital and your Dad arrested. Love is all those nights you couldn't sleep and I'd stay on the phone until late reading stories to you until you fell asleep. Love is your grandparents giving you a stable bedroom forever. Love was Christopher fighting off your bullies and giving you his jacket when it rained so you wouldn't get cold. Love is you running to get Ali when her car collided and staying with her in the hospital, just like the love she showed when she's stayed for you through thick and thin. Love is your friends probably already knowing you're miserable and getting you out of the house to party because they know you tend to depression and distancing from the group. Love is when someone makes you tea in the morning because they know you like it without you asking. Those things are love, Ash. You know love far more than you think. I promise.”

  
  



	44. Night out

**Chapter 44: Night out.**

At seven, Ashlyn and Whitney were ready to go, and Abby, who had been grateful for the idea of leaving the office for a bit, was there with them too. While Ali came, Ashlyn and Whitney told Abby about the night before as the friends sat in their party outfits in the living room, while Nick prepared for a men's night with the family panther, Walcott. Alike Whitney and Nick, Abby reacted by sitting petrified for a moment, then cursing between grilled teeth. Ashlyn, who had cried herself to sleep while simultaneously having a sudden need of rejecting physical contact, still carried the bags under her eyes proof of her lack of rest, and her police friend, once boss in the Navy, felt instantly bad for her.

“Fucking son of a bitch,” she murmured. “And there's no way of getting him extra prison time for it, I suppose?”

“Find a way of proving he did that,” Whitney sighed, shaking her head. “No way now.”

“It's fine,” said Ashlyn with a shrug. “I wouldn't want to get in more trials anyway. Ali's received a leg. I say we focus on finding out who the hell is after his, and I'll take care of good old Curtis later.”

The hug Ali gave Ashlyn as they met, bone-crushing and warm, should have been enough to tell Ashlyn how much Ali worried for her, but Ashlyn managed a smile and a nod, and they went off downtown.

An hour later, they sat around a table in a crowded club, listening from their seats as a small Indie band on stage enlivened the evening. Ashlyn nursed her second whiskey of the evening while the table filled with wedding conversation and she zoomed out. Whitney and Abby, both happily married, were giving advice to Ali, who had neglected most of her wedding tasks, putting them on her mother's shoulders while she focused on work. The wedding, initially set for March, had had to change date to August 1st, because Eric's mother's passing had felt too close to March and the groom had insisted on pushing it forward a little. This had resulted on Ali's dream dress losing the long sleeves and becoming a strap dress she didn't love as much.

“I've got fittings next week,” Ali commented, eating some chips, “let's hope it's not too terrible.”

“You're going to be gorgeous,” Whitney reassured her. She, too, was invited to the wedding, as were all of the few friends Ali had made in London, thanks to Ashlyn. “But you've got to stop thinning, curves do a lot of good to a dress.”

Ashlyn's eyes had fixed on a hooded figure that had been, in her opinion, staring at them for a while between the multitude, when her phone rang. Initially, she didn't pick-up, her eyes fixed on the figure, but then Kyle elbowed her, distracting her.

“Earth calling Ashlyn,” Kyle chuckled at her. “Your phone.”

Seeing there was nowhere quieter to attend the call, Ashlyn pulled her phone from her seat and saw it was Elin. Without much enthusiasm, she accepted the call and pressed a hand against one ear while pressing the phone against the other one.

“Hi babe,” Ashlyn said. She hadn't phoned her to come with her because her friends weren't bringing their partners and she figured it was a friends' night. Besides, Elin got a little too affectionate and she was still a little sensitive to touch.

“Hi darling! Where are you? I hear a lot of noise.”

“I've gone out with the girls. Friends' night out,” Ashlyn said honestly, removing the hand from her ear to grab her glass of whiskey, taking a long gulp.

“Oh...” Elin sounded disappointed. “Well, I was going to invite you offer for dinner and all, I'm alone tonight. I guess I could join—,”

“No,” the detective interrupted her, trying to find again the hooded person she had lost, “no, it's better you don't come.”

“Oh, woah,” Elin was now hurt. “Can I know why?”

“Well, 'cause it's a friends' night, Elin,” Ashlyn said somewhat annoyed. She didn't know why she was feeling so annoyed all of a sudden. Perhaps because she had lost the hooded figure due to the phone-call. “No one else brought their partners.”

“You can invite her,” Abby commented, hearing her. “We'd be happy to have her.” The others nodded in agreement, but Ashlyn's eyes were fixed in the multitude.

“Why don't you ask them if I can come? I'm here alone—,” Elin started.

“Maybe you have to learn to be there alone every now and then, Elin,” Ashlyn said rudely. “Or, God knows, go out with your own friends?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Elin said very evidently hurt, surprised by Ashlyn's odd behaviour. “Are we okay?”

“We are okay, Elin, don't be so dramatic. Look, I'll see you on Monday, okay? I just want to be with my friends, we'll... look, romantic date on Monday night, uh? I'll pick you up.”

“I've got Annie on Monday.”

“Get a sitter, you've got plenty of money. I'll take you somewhere nice.”

“I can't get a sitter on Annie's first day with me. You know she loves to sit and tell me all about her time with her Dad. Why don't you join us for dinner? We've been together for months, I think it's time you meet her?”

“No,” Ashlyn puffed, taking another sip of her drink and pushing her chair back to talk a bit separated from the group. “I'll call you tomorrow.” She hung up, and Abby frowned at her.

“What's wrong with your remaining brain?” Abby said with a smirk. “You're gonna lose that girl if you treat her like that.”

“Tragedy,” said Ashlyn sarcastically, looking back at her, “there was someone there, watching us.”

“What?” they all turned to see.

“Who?” Ali asked.

“Hooded, couldn't see the face, wore all black. Disappeared when I attended the fucking call.”

“This place is full of people, I doubt someone would be observing us here, how would they know we're here? You're just a little jumpy,” Abby said softly.

“Damn right I'm jumpy Abby, we got sent a freaking leg, I've lost three quarters of my clientèle... but I'm sure they were watching us. It's not the first time I've seen someone behave like that.”

“Then they've left, so we can calm down,” said Ali, smiling small at her. “No one's going to do anything while we're surrounded by people. Why don't you call Elin and tell her to come? Abby's right, she's not going to be happy and I did tell you before you could invite her.”

“Yeah, only reason I didn't bring Nick was because he was perfectly happy watching the Men's National Team beat Scotland's ass,” Whitney said.

“And Glennon's with the kids, so...” Abby shrugged. “Tara's got an exam tomorrow, Glen is making sure she's ready.” Glennon had three children, two of them grown teenagers and another barely a teenager, from a first marriage. When she had remarried to Abby, Abby had become an extra parent, and she had learned to love those kids as her own, but sometimes it was important they were alone with Glennon.

“Fine,” Ashlyn texted her girlfriend their location, that wasn't too far from her flat as a matter of fact, and went to get another drink, her whiskey having finished.

In reality, she was trying to catch the hooded person again. She walked slowly between the multitude, like a shark looking for its dinner, stopping every time she thought she had seen someone in the dark room, illuminated only by spotlights of different colours that blinked in the room. She finally reached the bar and had to wait to be attended, all while her eyes kept going back to the crowds. Finally, about ten minutes later, she had her whiskey and, as she walked back towards the group, she thought she saw the hooded person of earlier exiting the club. She took a large sip of her whiskey and followed outside.

The fresh of the evening hit her face, clearing her thoughts as she walked around the club, slowly, looking for anything suspicious. But she couldn't find them again, so the detective decided to go back to her friends, frustrated with her lack of success. She had to wait other ten minutes for another glass of whiskey, because she had finished the one she just bought already, and then walked back to the table. Elin was already there, laughing about something with Ali, Kyle and Kelley.

“Hi love!” Elin stood up with a grin, and hugged Ashlyn. “Everything okay?” Ashlyn stared at her for a moment, and then leaned and gave her a breathtaking kiss, her tongue brushing Elin's, before going back to her seat.

“Did you get a drink yet?” Ashlyn asked her girlfriend, separated from her by Abby and Kyle.

“Yeah, Abby got me a beer,” Elin smiled satisfied.

“What took you so long?” Abby asked her.

“I thought I saw someone I knew, went after, saw I was mistaken and had to go back and they took forever to serve me,” Ashlyn said, half-lying.

“Any novelties on the leg?” asked Elin, who had read all about it in the newspaper and asked Ashlyn about it for a couple days.

“Police is investigating some people Ashlyn thought could be after,” Ali said.

“Yeah, I've got people on it, and I've been in the office all day myself,” Abby explained. “But all the suspects are a bit off the radar. Hard to find.”

“I'm going to Plymouth next week,” said Ashlyn, remembering it suddenly. “Niki said she had stuff for me on Banks.”

“Who's Niki?” Elin asked, before Ali could.

“A fellow SIB,” Rapinoe replied. “Friend of ours. It's been ages, how is she?”

“She's fine, living her best life, retiring in a few months,” said Ashlyn, “but before, she's going to lend me a hand with this. I'm sure she'll locate Banks and then I can go and see what he's up to.”

“Well forensics will identify the victim soon, at least,” said Abby. “Perhaps by Monday. So Maybe you don't have to go to Plymouth after all, if it's not that girl, then it's not Banks. It'll be Lynch, or...”

“Curtis.”

“He can't have done it, Ashlyn, didn't you see it for yourself?”

“What I saw is anyone can come and visit,” Ashlyn argued stubbornly. “And he's a bloody liar, I'm sure he—,”

“Wait, Curtis? Your Dad?” Elin asked. “He's a suspect?”

“I don't have a Dad,” Ashlyn argued. “But yes, the guy who put the sperm into my creation is a suspect.”

“He's not, he's in prison. Ashlyn's just stubborn,” argued Abby. “Police's not investigating him.”

“One more thing the Met does wrong,” Ashlyn grumbled.

“Have some respect,” Abby elbowed her playfully. “When have I failed you, uh?” the detective looked sternly at her.

“If it was him and you didn't even bother to take a look, that'll be the first,” she replied. “Let's just hope not to have to lament another life before that.”

“I thought it wasn't clear it was a murderer,” Kelley intervened. “The newspapers said it could be a stolen body.”

“Died recently and was stolen and conserved in a freezer, yes,” Ashlyn nodded.

“Or there's a killer who likes to keep their victims in the kitchen,” Rapinoe suggested.

“Wouldn't be the first one,” Ali remembered with chills. “But wait, Ash, if you're going to Plymouth then I'll delay my trip North, I want to go.”

“No, you go North, I'll go South and meet you in London,” Ashlyn insisted. “I can drive now, I've booked a car.”

“Let's go dance,” Elin grabbed Ashlyn's arm and before she could say anything else, the detective was being dragged to the dancefloor.

“Finally, she's had a shit face all day,” Rapinoe smiled turning in her seat to see how this band was doing a cover of Luke Graham's 'When you love someone' and Elin had Ashlyn all between her arms, swaying with the music. “Cute.”

They had already discussed the events of the day before hours before, and the friends who knew Ashlyn for long knew that a distraction was very much welcomed, which was one of the reasons they had insisted she'd call Elin to come over and give her a good snogging session.

Ali looked through the railings of their floor to the dance-floor below. There was the bar, next to the stage, and then everyone dancing, with the dining area elevated about five metres, accessible through a couple streets and fenced with a railing so no one fell to the dance-floor below.

“God, I want a boyfriend,” Kyle murmured looking at the couple, that danced romantically, all smiles. Ashlyn looked somewhat more relaxed. Ali thought of her own times of dancing with Eric. When had they last gone out on a romantic date? Probably when they got engaged.

“She looks happy,” Whitney said cheerfully.

“Deservingly so,” added Pinoe with a nod. “Better forget that dickhead.”

Ashlyn had left her long coat on her chair. Since it was so hot she had substituted her usual suit jacket by a waistcoat, and she had it open now as the music got more upbeat and she danced her life out with her girlfriend. Ali could see she was a really good dancer and wished Eric liked dancing too. Then, suddenly, the couple stopped dancing and Ashlyn ran through the multitude, storming away. Elin looked up at them, as Abby and Pinoe stood up, wondering what was the matter. Elin seemed to shout something at them and then ran after Ashlyn, so immediately the group stood up, grabbed their things, and ran after them.

Ali had grabbed Ashlyn's coat and couldn't run much in her heels, but she still did her best attempt and stormed into the street after Abby and Rapinoe, seeing Ashlyn following a dark-hooded runner down the street.

“Hold these,” Ali gave her brother her heels and coat as they stopped running in the street, and ran barefoot after the ex-sailors, while Elin, Kelley, Whitney and Kyle stood behind, not knowing well what to do.

The detective wasn't going to let them go. She had shouted 'police, stop right there!' a couple times, but they weren't stopping, so she was going after. Turning right in the corner, Ashlyn ran through an alley that ended on a tall fence behind a large trash container. The hooded man jumped on the container and from there jumped to grab the fence and climb it. Ashlyn, who was a veteran in climbing fences, went straight for it, but as soon as the hooded person touched land on the other side of the fence, he turned around, pulling a gun from their hoodie, and aimed it at Ashlyn through the wire fence, making her stop dead in her tracks.

“Ash, no!” Ali grabbed Ashlyn from behind the waistcoat and unexpectedly pushed down on the floor, just as a shoot echoed in the alley.

Ashlyn opened her eyes with her heart racing. Ali was lying on top of her chest and the detective had hit her head against the ground, blacking-out for a moment.

“Ali, Ali, you good?” Ashlyn patted her, and Ali looked up and then rolled off her.

“I'm okay, you?”

“I'm... you saved my life!” Ashlyn turned around. Hoodie had left. “You saved my life, Ali.”

“You would've done the same.” Ali smiled warmly at her.

“Ladies!” Abby and Pinoe were behind them, having protected themselves by throwing themselves to the ground. “Everyone okay?”

“Check!” Pinoe said, making Ashlyn spin around until she was sure she was uninjured. It was important to check each other because sometimes adrenaline could keep you from feeling you had been shot. Abby checked Ali, and once the four were sure they were fine, they breathed in relief. “Here's the bullet,” Pinoe pointed at the wall on one side of the alley, as the bullet had travelled diagonally.

Abby took photographs of it and the hole in the fence, and then, taking a tissue from her pocket, she grabbed the bullet, wrapped it in the tissue, and shoved it in her pocket.

“That was close,” said Abby. “You two stay safe. We were definitely followed.”

“You're going to Masham,” said Ashlyn turning to Ali. “You saw what could've happened.” Ali nodded.

“But I'll be back.”

“Alex...”

“If you go down, I go down with you. That's how this is gonna work,” and relieved, Ali hugged her tightly. Ashlyn took a deep breath and nodded, wrapping her arms around the former defender.

  
  



	45. Badass women

**Chapter 45: Badass women.**

After a Sunday of relaxation and travel planning came Monday and both girls parted ways towards mostly unsatisfactory trips. Ali went with Eric back to Masham only to dislike her wedding dress, guiltily take over wedding planning to give her mother a break and to feel she was doing something, and then she was caught googling things in relationship to their investigation by Eric, who got severely offended by that ' _Can't you forget about legs and that woman even when we're trying to spend some family time?_ ' had he snapped at her, and thus they had rowed for their two days there.

Meanwhile, Ashlyn travelled to the HMS Drake in Plymouth, where her mate Niki Cross was currently stationed until her retirement. Niki was one of Ashlyn's best friends from the SIB, and she had been the best woman at Niki's wedding to her wife Molly three years before. Niki had left Ashlyn alone in her office at the naval base, pretending she had accidentally left her computer on so Ashlyn could take some pictures of it and they were still dont doing anything illegal. Niki had a full report on Trevor Banks for her.

Trevor Banks was fifteen years older than Ashlyn, and had married a widow who had two daughters, one of them Melissa. They had had a son while he was on a mission. There was no mention of the crime Niki and her had jointly investigated years before, of which Banks had not been declared guilty, but of which both women remained convinced that he was guilty. The fact that he had eluded justice had been the hardest thing for Ashlyn to live with of the stuff happened during her naval career. She could still vividly remember his feral, wild expression as he launched himself against Ashlyn with a broken glass bottle at hand. The sound of Ashlyn's fist colliding with his nose and then his had hitting the wall had been, as Niki had described, like a car ramming the side of the flimsy accomodation.

In Plymouth Ashlyn found out Banks had now a great navy pension. Following his leave from the Navy, Banks had returned home to Barrow-in-Furness, then Manchester, and then up to Barrow-in-Furness a couple years later.

“What's this here, Niki?”

“Psych report,” said Niki, coming back with two mugs of tea and passing her fingers through her short brown hair, “you shouldn't be looking at that at all. Very careless of me to have left it up there.”

“Very,” Ashlyn agreed with a smirk as they both sipped their tea.

However, the detective already knew all the psych report said. After Banks was hospitalized, it had been clear he was an alcoholic, and the doctors long debated about whether his symptoms were because of alcohol, PTSD, or traumatic brain injuries, being all a mix of them all. He had aphasia, dysarthria, and alexithymia. How difficult would it have been for Banks to fake these symptoms? They were very convenient back in the day, after all.

“Cunt to start with,” Ashlyn murmured.

“Amen.”

Niki also had a files about Romilda Lynch. Ashlyn's same age, they had met at twenty-two. She was broad and pale, her hair long and her eyes small like a ferret. She was fit and muscled-up, and her photo in the file showed her as Ashlyn remembered her. The Scottish woman had family in Melrose, and Ashlyn had ended her brief Navy career. Ashlyn went straight to the psych report:

_Strong indications of anti-social and borderline personality disorders... likely to present continuing risk of harm to others..._

Melrose and Barrow-in-Furness. It seemed time for a trip to Scotland, and Ashlyn didn't wait. Returning the car to London, that night she had packed a bag and gotten into a plane to Edinburgh, where she'd catch another rented car to get to Melrose first and to Barrow-in-Furness second. Since it was a short trip to Scotland, she arrived there late at night and decided to spend the night in Edinburgh, calling Ali.

“Guess where I am?” said Ashlyn into the phone as she stood in the motel room.

“Uhm... in bed?” Ali asked with amusement.

“Yes, a bed in Edinburgh,” Ashlyn sat on her bed. “Will make the trip to Melrose first thing in the morning, then Barrow-in-Furness. First to check on Lynch, second on Banks. Do you know Barrow-in-Furness?”

“Haven't been, but I think it's like... two hours from here,” Ali said, her Yorkshire accent thicker now she was in Masham. “Sounds familiar from the area maps. How did it go in Plymouth?”

“Plymouth led me to this. So, how happy would you be about finishing wedding stuff quickly and joining me in Barrow-in-Furness? I've got a rental car, but I know you don't like to miss on trips.”

“Wait,” Ashlyn heard movement, and then typing in a computer, “okay, Edinburgh is like three hours, three and a half from Masham. My mother's formally gifted me her Land Rover, I've got it here... I could be on the road by seven, pick you up around ten something, we'd be in Melrose by noon, more likely we'll find anyone than if we're there too early, don't you think? Say we spend a couple hours in Melrose, we'd be in Barrow-in-Furness by four or five in the afternoon, with more than time enough to check whatever you've seen there, and then we'd be at my Mum's house by dinner.”

“Are you offering to do the whole trip? Up here just to go south again? Spend the day driving?”

“You've just driven at large in Cornwall, and I know how much you hate cars and how much better it is when I drive. And I happen to love driving. Besides, you could cancel the booking and save money.”

“What about the wedding?”

“Ash, the wedding's more than planned enough, and I've just spent the entire day doing wedding stuff, I swear,” she lowered her voice, “if I hear the word 'flowers' once more, I might go mad.”

Ashlyn couldn't help but laugh.

“Eric's not gonna like this.”

“He won't. I'm going to love it though.”

“Me too. See you in the morning.”

Eleven in the morning saw Ashlyn and Ali, sunglasses on and windows down, singing-yelling in the car as Ali drove her way south towards Melrose.

“IIII BOWED DOWN TO PRAY, I TRY TO MAKE THE WORST SEEM BETTER!!!” both women shouted-sang, laughing as the music blasted through the small, old radio.

“I'm glad to see you look happier,” Ali said beaming at Ashlyn as she fist-pumped the air.

“I had an epiphany this morning,” Ashlyn admitted, looking through the window at the pistachio green fields extending at both sides of the road as far as her eyes could see.

“Really? Give us the wisdom.”

“Bad shit happens,” Ashlyn said, facing Ali, “and there's bloody little we can do about it. And we can either lie in bed agoraphobic or we can go out and become fucking badass women. And if you do the latter, you get to make a difference. You get to make this world a better place,” Ali grinned big. “That's what I want to do, Ali. Past will be locked in the past and I'll build myself a life worth being thrilled for. A wife. Children. There's still time.”

Ali reached out a hand and squeezed hers.

“There's always time to be happy if we only focus on that goal. And when you've got a bad day—,”

“You'll be there to pick-up the pieces,” Ashlyn lifted Ali's hand to her lips and surprisingly kissed the back of it, making her blush in a way that didn't escape Ashlyn's eyes.

“Damn right.”

“Besides, I think it's worth noting how life's trying to compensate me, bringing me the one and only Alexandra Blaire Krieger.”

“How do you know...?”

“Wedding invite.”

“Oh, I forgot about that. What's your middle name?”

“Michelle? Like Obama?”

“Obama was a man last I checked, but yeah,” Ashlyn earned a light slap on her arm and a guffaw, and grinned, going for the next soon. “SHORTY GET DOWN, GOOD LORD...!”

“Oh she raps!”

The amount of laughter they had while singing 'No diggity' at once told Ali that this was worth the row Eric had made of her trip first thing in the morning.

As they drove the last few miles, Ali wanted to know the story with Romilda Lynch, so Ashlyn told her. They had first met in a boxing ring. Military people often boxed between themselves for fun, and Ashlyn had been an avid fan, and very good at it. Back then, a young, fit, toned, and muscled in-shape Ashlyn had been ready to show her skills in the mini tournament, with half the supporters of the current champion, Lynch. Lynch had a thick neck, was red-headed and freckled, and had a rather manly face. After four rounds they had been even, and in the fifth round, Ashlyn gave her a blow to the kidneys that made her collapse on the ground. After that, Lynch lost her discipline, and after seeming like she was trying to kill Ashlyn, she had been warned twice by the ref. Only seconds into round number six, Ashlyn had managed to force Lynch onto the ropes with a nose pouring blood. Then Lynch had responded by abandoning the last bit of civilized behaviour and attempted a headbutt. The referee tried to intervene and Lynch got so crazy she locked Ashlyn and actually bit her face.

Ashlyn could remember how the crowds had felt silent as they turned uneasy, how the referee had tried to force them apart at Lynch's ugly force, and Ashlyn had had to protect her life. She had sidestepped then and given one hard punch to her opponent's gut, making her double over and hit the floor on her knees. Lynch had then been confined to barracks for her display of ill discipline and violence in the ring, with no worse punishment after telling her senior officer that she had entered the ring deeply distressed by the news of a cousin's passing. Ashlyn had shortly after left the country for a mission.

Then three years after they had met in Cyprus, as Ashlyn had had to investigate Lynch. Lynch's lawyer had objected because of their ring history, so Ashlyn swapped cases with a colleague. When she and her colleagues had drinks just a week later, she was surprised to find he was inclined to believe Lynch's story, which was that she and the alleged victim, a local waitress, had had clumsy, drunken, consensual sex which the waitress now regretted because her boyfriend had heard rumours that she had left work with Lynch. There were no witnesses to the attack, that the waitress said to have taken place at knifepoint.

“Big party girl,” had said Ashlyn's colleague.

Ashlyn hadn't been able to contradict him, but had not forgotten that Lynch once managed to gain the sympathy of a senior officer after a display of violence and insubordination witnessed by hundreds. When she had asked for details on Lynch's story and demeanour, she had been described a sharp, likeable man with a wry sense of humor.

“I don't see her as a rapist. She married a girl from home, she's out here with her.”

Weeks later, as Ashlyn was undercover in a drugs case, lounging in a ship with a Cypriot dealer beside her, her companion had confessed that there were several soldiers and sailors dealing in the island, not just with weed, as he was. Giving names, he described how Romilda Lynch had tied up and tortured her wife because she wanted to leave her. Lynch had then been described as crazy, and apparently had told the dealer the story herself. Apparently it had been told partly to amuse and partly to warn the young Cypriot with whom she was dealing.

The next day Ashlyn visited the Lynchs' house while Romilda, who had eluded charges of rape, was at work. She had been told by a neighbour that the wife was super shy and never left the house, while 'Rommy' was the life and soul. There were plenty of rules about entering another soldier’s house without his express permission. Ashlyn had heard the family's baby, that they had had through IUI, crying inside the house, so she had pounded the door with no answer. Then, she moved around the house seeing every curtain was closed, and tried again on the back door. Nothing. Ashlyn had figured if she had to defend her actions, the baby's cries should be enough, even if it might not be considered enough for forcing entry without a warrant. Ashlyn mistrusted anyone who was over-reliant on instinct or intuition, but she was convinced that there was something wrong. She possessed a finely honed sense for the strange and the wicked. In her childhood, she had been witness to things that other people preferred to imagine happened only in films.

She shouldered against the door a few times and the door gave in. The kitchen smelled bad. Nobody had emptied the bin for days. She had then called for Mrs Lynch, to no answer. The baby’s feeble cries were coming from the upper floor. She kept calling out as she climbed the stairs, and finally the door to the main bedroom stood open. The room was in semidarkness. It smelled horrible.

“Mrs. Lynch?”

She was naked, tied by one wrist to the headboard, partially covered by a heavily bloodstained sheet. The baby lay beside her on the mattress, wearing only a nappy. Ashlyn could see that it looked shrunken, unhealthy. As she bounded across the room to free her, her other hand already searching for the mobile to call an ambulance, she spoke in a cracked voice:

“No… go away… get out…”

Despite her own family history, Ashlyn had rarely seen terror like it. In her inhumanity, her wife had come to seem almost supernatural. Even as Ashlyn attempted to release her bloody and swollen wrist, she begged Ashlyn to leave her there. Lynch had told her that she would kill her if the baby was not happier when she returned. She did not seem able to conceive of a future where Romilda Lynch, her wife, was not omnipotent. But the God had been sentenced to sixteen years’ imprisonment for what she had done to her wife, and Ashlyn's evidence had put her away, even when Lynch had denied everything, saying that her wife had tied herself up, that she liked it, that she loved BDSM and was kinky that way, that she had neglected the baby, that she had tried to frame her, that it was all a put-up job.

Ali was horrified by the story as she entered Melrose. The scenery there was of a kind that was not familiar to Ashlyn. The sweeping masses of granite, these rolling hills, had an alien grandeur in their bareness, in their calm spaciousness. Ashlyn had spent much of her childhood perched on the coast, with the taste of salt in the air: this was a place of woodland and river, mysterious and secretive in a different way from St. Mawes, the little town with its long smuggling history, where colourful houses tumbled down to the beach.

“All right, so,” Ali said as she exited the car, parked behind the abbey. “This woman's bloody scary. And she could be anywhere here.”

“Yeah,” Ashlyn nodded. “Either that or in London sending us a modern version of personal cards.” She added, buttoning-up her waistcoat and leaving her coat open, because it was only a little chilly.

“Heart-warming,” Ali commented with irony, and both, sunglasses on and hair loose, walked with determination up the sloping high street to the central square, where a round stone in the pavement bore the town's old Roman name, _Trimontium_ , which Ashlyn knew must refer to the triple-peaked hill nearby. “Have you noticed,” said Ali as she looked around for the address Ashlyn had found of the woman. Ashlyn had already updated her on Plymouth, “if you got seven hills, that's Rome, but with three hills you get Melrose. Where would London be?”

“The city of no-hills-plenty-of-contamination, of course,” Ashlyn chuckled. “Masham?”

“Too many hills for me to count,” Ali snorted a laugh. “Freezland?”

“There's a ring to it,” Ashlyn chuckled, and pointed to a bright blue front door reached by a short flight of steps. “We're here. Stay behind me, will you?”

“No, please, let me stand first in front of a sadistic bitch...” Ali murmured with false enthusiasm behind Ashlyn, making the detective chortle.

Ashlyn's knock was quickly answered by a pretty, dark-haired woman, quite young.

“Hello,” Ashlyn smiled, “I was looking for the Lynch family.”

“Mrs Lynch would be the one left,” she said.

“Romilda Lynch?”

“No, her Mum. She's no been here for ten years or more. She stays up in Dingleton Road.”

“Is that far?”

“Just up the way,” she pointed the direction. “I dinnae ken the number, sorry.”

“No problem, thank you very much, have a good day.” As the door closed, Ashlyn turned to a confused Ali.

“Did you seriously understand her accent or pretended to?” Ali whispered with a frown. Ashlyn laughed.

“And you call yourself Northerner? Come this way.” Ashlyn wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her up the road in search of Romilda Lynch.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Please remember Fanfic Authors are often unappreciated. Yes, we don't write best sellers, we write for love and we write for free, when we have time, through studies, jobs, life... we write because we love writing, but we CHOOSE to share what we write with you, so the least you can do is show your writers your appreciation. As you can see I spent a whole year writing without necessarily publishing, because like many others, I don't NEED to publish. I do it hoping it'll bring other people the joy it brings me to read and write. But it's up to you to keep updates going, and not make us feel like we might as well keep the work to ourselves. Thank you!


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